BOB STEELE
In Strange Waters
or
Aboard a Strange Craft

Frontispiece

The submarine battles with a gigantic bull cachalot.
Page 211.

BOB STEELE
In Strange Waters
or
Aboard a Strange Craft

BY
DONALD GRAYSON

AUTHOR OF
The Famous Motor-Power Stories

MOTOR POWER SERIES

PHILADELPHIA
DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER
604–8 South Washington Square

Copyright, 1909
By STREET & SMITH

In Strange Waters

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER |  | PAGE
I. | In the Depths. | 5
II. | Out of the Jaws of Death. | 12
III. | Sealed Orders. | 18
IV. | The American Consul. | 25
V. | Timely Forbearance. | 32
VI. | On the Jump. | 37
VII. | The Landing Party. | 44
VIII. | Carl in Trouble. | 50
IX. | A Friend in Need. | 55
X. | Strange Revelations. | 62
XI. | One Chance in Ten. | 68
XII. | By a Narrow Margin. | 75
XIII. | Waiting for Something. | 81
XIV. | A Great Play. | 88
XV. | On the Way. | 94
XVI. | A Dash of Tabasco. | 101
XVII. | A Serious Serenade. | 106
XVIII. | Don Ramon Ortega. | 112
XIX. | The Shadow of Treachery. | 119
XX. | The Hidden Snare. | 125
XXI. | A Mutiny. | 132
XXII. | A Lesson in “Who’s Who.” | 139
XXIII. | The Snare Tightens. | 146
XXIV. | The Don’s Proposal. | 152
XXV. | Unexpected Loyalty. | 159
XXVI. | A Favorable Opportunity. | 165
XXVII. | Exciting Work. | 172
XXVIII. | Capturing the General. | 178
XXIX. | Off for the Gulf. | 184
XXX. | Running the Battery. | 190
XXXI. | The “Seminole.” | 195
XXXII. | Matters Arranged. | 202
XXXIII. | A Submarine Battle. | 207
XXXIV. | In Quest of Documents. | 214
XXXV. | The Meeting in the Harbor. | 220
XXXVI. | Ah Sin’s Clew. | 226
XXXVII. | Off for the Amazon. | 233
XXXVIII. | Villainous Work. | 240
XXXIX. | Rubbing Elbows with Death. | 246
XL. | A Dive for Safety. | 251
XLI. | Putting Two and Two Together. | 258
XLII. | Under the Amazon. | 264
XLIII. | Hand to Hand. | 270
XLIV. | Boarded! | 276
XLV. | A Prisoner—and a Surprise. | 283
XLVI. | The Old Slouch Hat. | 289
XLVII. | At Para. | 295
XLVIII. | A Desperate Risk. | 301

IN STRANGE WATERS.

CHAPTER I.
IN THE DEPTHS.

“Bob Steele!”

“What is it, captain?”

“We are in St. George’s Bay, ten miles from the port of Belize, British Honduras. Two days ago, while we were well out in the gulf, I opened the letter containing the first part of my sealed orders. Those orders, as you know, sent us to Belize. Before we reach there and open the envelope containing the rest of our orders, I think it necessary to test out the Grampus thoroughly. Unless I am greatly mistaken, the instructions yet to be read may call for work that will demand the last ounce of preparation we can give the submarine. I have stopped the motor, and we are lying motionless on the surface of the sea. The lead shows that there are two hundred and twenty-five feet of water under us. The steel shell of the Grampus is warranted to stand the pressure of water at that depth. Do you follow me?”

“Certainly, captain.”

“Now, Bob, I have been watching you for a long time, and I believe that you know more about the gasoline motor than I do, and fully as much about maneuvering the submarine. We are going to dive to two hundred and ten feet—the deepest submersion by far the Grampus ever made. I wish you to take entire charge. If you get into difficulties, you must get out of them again, for I intend to stand by and not put in a word unless tragedy stares us in the face and you call on me for advice.”

A thrill ran through Bob Steele. The submarine, with all her complicated equipment, was for a time to be under his control. This move of Captain Nemo, junior’s, perhaps, was a test for him no less than for the Grampus.

For a brief space the young man bent his head thoughtfully.

“Do you hesitate, Bob?” asked Captain Nemo, junior.

“Not at all, sir,” was the calm answer. “I was just running over in my mind the things necessary to be done in making such a deep dive. The pressure at two hundred and ten feet will be terrific. At that depth, the lid of our hatchway will be supporting a weight of more than thirty-two tons.”

“Exactly,” answered the captain, pleased with the way Bob’s mind was going over the work.

“If there happened to be anything wrong with the calculations of the man who built the Grampus, captain, she would be smashed like an eggshell.”

“We are going to prove his calculations.” The captain seated himself on a low stool. “Gaines is at the motor, Clackett is at the submerging tanks, Speake has charge of the storage batteries and compressed air, and Cassidy is here in the periscope room with us to drive the Grampus in any direction you desire.”

“Dick Ferral is with Gaines,” added Bob, “and Carl Pretzel is with Clackett.”

“Exactly. Every man is at his station, and some of the stations are double-manned. Now, then, go ahead.”

Bob whirled to a speaking tube.

“We’re going to make a record dive, Clackett,” he called into the tube, “and Captain Nemo, junior, has placed me in charge——”

“Bully for the captain!” came back the voice of Clackett, echoing weirdly distinct in the periscope room.

“Our submergence will be two hundred and ten feet,” went on Bob. “You and Carl, Clackett, will put the steel baulks in place. I’ll have Dick and Gaines help you.”

Another order was called to the engine room, and presently there were sounds, forward and aft, which indicated that the metal props, to further strengthen the steel shell, were being dropped into their supports.

“Cassidy,” said Bob, “see that the double doors of the hatch are secured.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” answered the mate, darting up the conning-tower ladder.

“Speake,” ordered Bob, through another tube, “see that the tension indicators are in place.”

“Double doors of the hatch secured,” reported Cassidy a moment later.

“Pressure sponsons in place,” came rattling through the tube from Clackett.

“Tension indicators in position,” announced Speake.

“Dive at the rate of twelve yards to the minute, Clackett,” ordered Bob.

A hiss of air, escaping from the ballast tanks as the water came in, was heard. A tremor ran through the steel fabric, followed by a gentle downward motion. Bob kept his eyes on the manometric needles. Twenty yards, twenty-five, thirty, and forty were indicated. A pressure of ten pounds to the square centimeter was recorded.

“Plates are beginning to bend, captain,” called Speake.

This was not particularly alarming, for the baulks would settle down to their work.

“Close the bulkhead doors, Dick!” called Bob.

“Aye, aye!” returned Dick, and sounds indicated that the order was immediately carried out.

“Sixty yards,” called Clackett; “sixty-five, seventy yards——”

“Hold her so!” cried Bob.

“What is the danger point in the matter of flexion, captain?” asked Bob, turning to Nemo, junior, whose gray head was bowed forward on his hand, while his gleaming eyes regarded the cool, self-possessed youth with something like admiration.

“Ten millimeters,” was the answer.

“We still have a margin of three millimeters and are at the depth you indicated.”

“Bravo! We are five yards from the bottom. Do a little cruising, Bob. Let us see how the Grampus behaves at this depth.”

The entire shell of the submarine was under an enormous pressure.

Bob gave the order to start the motor, and the popping of the engine soon settled into a low hum of perfectly working cylinders. A forward motion was felt by those in the submarine.

“Not many people have ever had the novel experience of navigating the ocean seventy yards below the surface,” remarked the captain, with a slow smile.

“It’s a wonderful thing!” exclaimed Bob. “The Grampus seems equal to any task you set for her, captain.”

The air of the periscope room was being exhausted by the breathing of Bob, Nemo, junior, and Cassidy. Bob ordered the bulkhead doors opened, in order that fresh oxygen might be admitted from the reservoirs. Just before the doors were opened, Captain Nemo, junior’s, face had suddenly paled, and he had swayed on his seat, throwing a hand to his chest.

“You can’t stand this, captain!” exclaimed Bob, jumping to the captain’s side. “Hadn’t we better ascend?”

The captain collected himself quickly and waved the youth away.

“Never mind me, my lad,” he answered. “I feel better, now that a little fresh oxygen is coming in to us. Go on with your maneuvering.”

All was silent in the submarine, save for the croon of the engine, running as sweetly as any Bob had ever heard. Aside from a faint oppression in the chest and a low ringing in the ears, the Grampus might have been cruising on the surface, so far as her passengers could know.

Cassidy was at the wheel, steering, his passive eyes on the compass.

Bob turned away from the manometer with a remark on his lips, but before the words could be spoken there was a shock, and the submarine shivered and stopped dead.

“Hello!” whooped the voice of Carl. “Ve must haf run indo vone of der moundains in der sea.”

“Full speed astern, Gaines,” cried Bob.

The blades of the propeller revolved fiercely. The steel hull shook and tugged, but all to no purpose.

Captain Nemo, junior, sat quietly in his seat and never offered a suggestion. His steady eyes were on Bob Steele.

Bob realized that they were in a terrible predicament. Suppose they were hopelessly entangled in the ocean’s depths? Suppose there was no escape for them, and the shell of the Grampus was to be their tomb? These reflections did not shake the lad’s nerve. His face whitened a little, but a resolute light gleamed in his gray eyes.

“How are the bow plates, Speake?” he demanded through one of the tubes. Speake was in the torpedo room.

“Right as a trivet!” answered Speake.

After five minutes of violent and useless churning of the screw, Bob turned to Cassidy. The mate, grave-faced and anxious, was looking at him and waiting for orders.

“Rig the electric projector, Cassidy,” said Bob calmly.

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the mate.

When the little searchlight was in position, a gleam was thrown through one of the forward lunettes out over the bow of the Grampus. Bob, feeling keenly the weight of responsibility that rested on his shoulders, mounted the iron ladder to the conning tower and looked through one of the small windows.

To his intense astonishment he found the bottom of the sea pervaded with a faintly luminous light, perhaps due to some phosphorescence given off by the marine growth. Through this glow traveled the brighter gleam of the searchlight.

The Grampus was lying in a dense forest of nodding, moss-covered stems. The vegetation of the ocean bed, with its lianes and creeping growth, twisted all about the submarine, fluttering and waving in the currents caused by the swiftly revolving propeller.

A gasp escaped Bob’s lips, however, when he fixed his attention forward. For a full minute he stood on the ladder, taking in the weird and dangerous predicament of the Grampus.

Then an exclamation fell from his lips, and he looked down to see Captain Nemo, junior, slowly mounting to his side.

“Look!” whispered Bob hoarsely, nodding toward the lunettes.

The captain pressed his eyes against the thick glass and then dropped back.

“A ship!” he exclaimed. “We have rammed an old Spanish galleon and are caught in her rotting timbers!”

He looked upward, his startled eyes engaging Bob’s, and the two staring at each other.

CHAPTER II.
OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH.

What the captain had said was true. The Grampus, cruising in those great depths, had had the misfortune to hurl herself bodily on into an ancient wreck.

The wreck, which must have lain for centuries there on the bottom, was covered with marine growth, yet, nevertheless, seemed wonderfully well preserved. The high bow and poop, covered with serpentlike lianes and creeping weeds, were erect in the water, for the galleon lay on an even keel. The ship’s two masts and steep bowsprit had been broken off, and the decks were a litter of weeds, shells, and sand.

The Grampus, cleaving the heavy submarine growth, had flung her sharp prow into the galleon’s side and was embedded almost to the flagstaff.

The captain and Bob descended silently into the periscope room.

“We jammed into an old wreck, did we?” queried Cassidy, calmly but with a look on his face which reflected the perturbation of his mind.

“Yes,” answered Bob. “Some Spanish ship went down here—perhaps loaded with treasure for across the sea.”

“Hardly loaded with treasure, Bob,” spoke up the captain. “This is the Spanish Main, and the reefs off Honduras offered shelter for many a pirate in the old days. This galleon, I am inclined to think, was stripped of her treasure by some buccaneer, and sunk. It is too bad that she was sunk in the course we happened to be taking.”

The rack of the useless motor ceased on an order from Bob; in the deep, deathlike silence that intervened, a wail came up from the tank room.

“Vat’s der madder mit us, Bob? Dit ve run indo a cave in der ocean? If ve can’t ged oudt, vat vill pecome of us?”

“We ran into an old Spanish ship, Carl,” answered Bob, “and we are so jammed in the side of the hulk that we haven’t been able, so far, to back out.”

“Meppy ve von’t nefer be aple to pack oudt! Meppy ve vas down here for keeps, hey? Nexdt dime I go down in some supmarines, you bed your life I make a vill before I shtart.”

Carl, white as a sheet and scared, came rolling into the periscope room. Dick likewise showed up from forward.

“Well, here we are!” said he; “I hadn’t any notion this was to be our last cruise.”

“It’s not,” answered Bob. “We’ll get out of this.”

He turned to Captain Nemo, junior, who was again seated quietly, his calm eyes on Steele.

“The power of the screw, unaided, will not serve to get us clear of the wreck,” said the captain. “What are you going to do, Bob?”

Bob thought for a moment. “Am I to have my way, captain?” he asked.

“Certainly. I want to see what you can do.”

“Speake! Gaines! Clackett!” called Bob. “Come up here, at once.”

From the engine room, the torpedo room, and the ballast room came the rest of the submarine’s crew. Their faces were gray with anxiety, but they were men of pluck and determination, and could be depended on to fight for life until the very last.

“Men,” said Bob, “we have rammed an old hulk that has been lying for centuries in the bottom of St. George’s Bay. The nose of the Grampus is caught and held in the wreck’s side, and the full power of the engine is not sufficient to pull us out. We shall have to try something else—something that will put a great strain on the steel shell of the submarine, considering the pressure the boat is under at this enormous depth. I am going to give some orders, and on the swiftness with which they are carried out our lives may depend. You will all go back to your stations, Carl with Clackett and Dick with Gaines; and when I shout the word ‘Ready!’ the engine will be started with all power astern. At the same instant, Clackett and Carl will open the pipes and admit air into the ballast tanks, and open the valves that let out the water. We may have to do all this several times, if necessary, but you fellows have got to be prompt in doing what you are told.”

Admiration was again reflected in Captain Nemo’s pale face. Leaning back against the steel wall of the periscope room, he settled himself quietly to await developments.

“Count on me,” said Clackett, as he and Carl disappeared.

“And on us,” said Gaines, leaving the periscope room with Dick.

Cassidy merely gave a nod and turned to his steering wheel. Bob went up into the tower and placed himself at one of the lunettes. His heart was beating against his ribs with trip-hammer blows, but his brain was cool and clear. When he had given the crew sufficient time to gain their stations, he lifted his voice loudly.

“Ready!”

The word rang through the periscope room and echoed clatteringly through the steel hull.

The propeller began to whirl like mad, and the sudden opening of the ballast tanks depressed the free rear portion of the submarine.

For a full minute the wild struggle went on, and so shaken was the boat that it seemed as though she must fly in pieces. Then, abruptly, the Grampus leaped backward and upward, clearing the forestlike growth of seaweed at a gigantic bound.

The upward motion was felt by every one in the boat, and cries of exultation came to Bob’s ears in clamoring echoes.

Slipping like lightning down the ladder, he shouted to Gaines to stop the madly working engine and reverse it at a more leisurely speed.

Like a huge air bubble, the Grampus swung up and up, and when she emerged above the surface, and Bob could see sunlight through the dripping lunettes, he turned off the electric projector, opened the hatch and threw it back, and gulped down deep breaths of the warm, fresh air.

Once more slipping down the ladder, he saluted the captain.

“I turn the ship over to you, sir,” said he, and collapsed on a stool, mopping the perspiration from his face.

“You’re a brick!” grunted Cassidy, picking up the course for Belize.

“Hooray for Bob!” came a thrilling shout from somewhere in the bowels of the craft. For an instant, the steel walls echoed with the jubilant yells of Carl, Dick, Gaines, Speake, and Clackett.

“It came near to taking the ginger all out of me, captain,” breathed Bob. “The novelty of the thing was mighty trying.”

Captain Nemo, junior, still strangely pale, was regarding the youth fixedly. For some moments after the cheering ceased he said nothing; then, leaning abruptly forward, he caught Bob’s hand. The captain’s own hand was as cold as ice.

“Captain!” the young fellow exclaimed, starting up, “there’s something wrong with you! Do you feel faint or——”

The captain waved his hand deprecatingly, and the calm, inscrutable smile hovered about his thin lips.

“Let that pass for a moment, my lad,” said he. “I was testing the Grampus, but, more than that, I was likewise testing you. Since we picked up Carl and Dick, off the Dolphin, and before that, while we were cruising about trying to find them, you have been serving your apprenticeship on the submarine. I have always had the utmost confidence in you, Bob Steele, and I have now, I think, tested your knowledge of the Grampus in a manner which leaves no room for doubt. You are able to run the boat, and to extricate her from any difficulties in which she might become entangled, as well, if not better, than I could do myself.”

Bob, from the captain’s manner, had suspected that the gray-haired inventor of the craft had tried to bring out all that was in him. Captain Nemo, junior, of course, had not been able to forecast the trouble that was to overtake the submarine in the bottom of the bay, but this dangerous experience had served only to show Bob’s resourcefulness to better advantage.

“You are cool-headed in time of danger,” proceeded the captain, “and, no matter what goes wrong, your ability is always on tap and can be brought to bear instantly upon anything you desire to accomplish.”

The red ran into Bob’s face, and he waved a hand deprecatingly.

“I’m not a particle better than a lot of other fellows,” said he, “who try to use their eyes and hands and brains.”

“I expected you to say that, Bob,” continued the captain. “The test, in your case, was hardly necessary, for I have watched your work in a lot of trying situations—and it has always been the same, steady, resourceful, reliable. Just now, we are going to Belize, British Honduras, to carry out some work for our government. As I have already told you, I don’t know what that work is. Two sealed envelopes were given me by Captain Wynekoop of the U. S. cruiser Seminole. The first one told us to proceed to Belize. The next one, which I have here in my pocket, will instruct you relative to the work in prospect, and——”

“Instruct me?” broke in Bob startled.

The captain nodded.

“I have not recovered from the strange illness which overtook me in New Orleans, as a result of inhaling the poisonous odor given off by the head of that idol. I feel that another attack is coming upon me—I have felt it for several hours—and, inasmuch as the government is watching the work of the Grampus with the intention of buying her at a good round price if she makes good, our sealed orders must be carried out. For this work, Bob, you are my choice; you are to command the Grampus, do everything that you think—that you think——”

Captain Nemo, junior, paused, struggled with the words for a space, then drooped slowly forward and fell from his seat to the floor of the room. There he lay, unconscious, and breathing heavily.

CHAPTER III.
SEALED ORDERS.

For a brief space Bob Steele and Cassidy stood looking down at the prostrate form crumpled at their feet. The captain had been stricken so suddenly that they were astounded.

Cassidy took a look through the periscope and lashed the wheel; then he hurried to help Bob, who was lifting the unconscious man to a long locker at the side of the room.

“He ain’t never been right since he was sick in New Orleans,” muttered Cassidy. “He jumped into work before he was well enough.”

The captain’s former illness had been of a peculiar nature. An idol’s head, steeped in some noxious liquor that caused the head to give off a deadly odor, was, according to his firm belief, the cause of his sickness. Carl had also come under the influence of the poisonous odor, but it had had no such effect upon him. However, no two persons are exactly alike, and sometimes a thing that will work havoc with one may have no effect upon another.

“His heart action is good, Cassidy,” said Bob.

“He’s a sick man for all that,” replied the mate. “I’ve noticed for several hours he was nervous like. We’ll have to take him ashore at Belize, and you’ll have to be the captain while we’re doing the work that’s to be done.”

There was an under note in Cassidy’s voice that caused Bob to give him a keen look. The mate was a good fellow, but he was second in command, aboard the Grampus, and it was quite natural for him to expect to be the one who stepped into the captain’s shoes.

“You heard what Captain Nemo, junior, said?” asked Bob.

“Sure, I did,” returned the mate gruffly.

“I had not the least notion he was picking me for any such place.”

“He’s a queer chap, the cap’n is,” said Cassidy, averting his face and getting up from the side of the locker. “I’ll go get him a swig of brandy—maybe it’ll bring him round.”

When Cassidy returned from the storeroom with the brandy flask, Bob could hardly avoid detecting that he had himself sampled the liquor. Bob was disagreeably surprised, for he had not known that the mate was a drinking man.

While they were forcing a little of the brandy down the captain’s throat, Dick and Carl came into the periscope room.

“Vat’s der madder mit der gaptain?” asked Carl, as he and Dick crowded close to the locker.

Bob told of the illness that had so suddenly overtaken the master of the submarine.

“Well, that’s queer!” exclaimed Dick.

“For the last hour,” went on Bob, “the captain’s hands have been like ice and his face pale. I knew he didn’t feel well, but I hadn’t any idea he was as bad as this.”

“Tough luck!” growled Cassidy.

“Shall we need a pilot to take us into Belize?” asked Bob.

“We can’t get very close to the town, but will have to lay off and go ashore in a boat. I know the place well enough to take the Grampus to a safe berth.”

“Then you’d better go up in the lookout, Cassidy, and see to laying us alongside the town.”

A mutinous look flickered for an instant on Cassidy’s weather-beaten face. He hesitated, and then, without a word, turned away and climbed into the conning tower.

A moment more and the captain revived and opened his eyes.

“How are you feeling, sir?” queried Bob.

“Far from well, my lad,” was the answer, in a weak voice. “Are we off Belize?”

“Not yet, sir, but we are drawing close.”

“We are close enough so that we can read the second half of our sealed orders.”

The captain lifted a hand and removed from the breast pocket of his coat a sealed envelope, which he handed to Bob.

“Open it, Bob,” said he, “and read it aloud.”

The young motorist paused. “Captain,” said he, “wouldn’t Cassidy be the right man for carrying out the work that brought us into these waters? He is the mate, you know, and I think he expects——”

“Cassidy is here to obey orders,” interrupted the captain. “Cassidy has a failing, and that failing is drink. No man that takes liquor is ever to be depended on. As long as I’m around, and can watch him, Cassidy keeps pretty straight, but if I’m laid up at Belize, as I expect to be, I prefer to have some one in command of the Grampus whom I can trust implicitly. Read the orders.”

Bob tore open the envelope and removed the inclosed sheet.

“On Board U. S. Cruiser Seminole, at Sea.

“Captain Nemo, Junior, Submarine Grampus.

“Sir: Acting under orders from the secretary of the navy, I have the honor to request that the Grampus lend her aid to the rescue of United States Consul Jeremiah Coleman, who has been sequestered by Central American revolutionists, presumably under orders from Captain James Sixty, of the brig Dolphin, who is now a prisoner in our hands. Mr. Hays Jordan, the United States consul at Belize, will inform you as to the place where Mr. Coleman is being held. This is somewhere up the Rio Dolce, in a place inaccessible even to gunboats of the lightest draft, and it is hoped the Grampus may be able to accomplish something. Present this letter to Mr. Jordan immediately upon reaching Belize, and be guided in whatever you do by his knowledge and judgment. I have the honor to remain, sir, your most obedient,

“Arthur Wynekoop,

“Captain Cruiser Seminole.”

A movement behind Bob caused him to look around. Cassidy had descended quietly from the conning tower and was steering the ship entirely by the periscope.

“We are off Belize, sir,” announced Cassidy, “and two small sailboats are coming this way. We are to anchor at the surface, I suppose?”

Bob did not know how long the mate had been in the periscope room, but supposed he had been there long enough to overhear the instructions.

“Certainly,” said the captain.

Cassidy touched a jingler connected with the engine room. The hum of the motor slowly ceased.

“Get out an anchor fore-and-aft, Speake,” the mate called through one of the speaking tubes.

“Aye, aye, sir,” came the response through the tube.

A little later a muffled rattling could be heard as a chain was paid out through the patent water-tight hawse hole. Presently the rattling stopped, and the Grampus shivered and swung to her scope of cable. More rattling came from the stern, and soon two anchors were holding the submarine steady in her berth.

“I want you to go ashore, Bob,” said Captain Nemo, junior, “and see the American consul. Find a place where I can be taken care of; also, show that letter to the consul and tell him you are my representative. Better take Dick with you.”

“All right, sir,” replied Bob.

A blueish tinge had crept into the pallor of the captain’s face. Bob had been covertly watching, and his anxiety on the captain’s account had increased. The captain must be taken ashore as quickly as possible and placed in a doctor’s hands.

“Come on, Dick,” called Bob, starting up the conning-tower ladder.

With his chum at his heels, Bob crawled over the rim of the conning-tower hatch and lowered himself to the rounded steel deck.

The port of Belize, nestling in a tropical bower of coconut trees, was about a mile distant. Owing to her light draft, the Grampus had been able to come closer to the town than other ships in the harbor. The submarine lay between a number of sailing vessels and steamboats and the line of white buildings peeping out of the greenery beyond the beach.

Two small sailboats, manned by negroes, were approaching the Grampus. Bob motioned to one of them, and her skipper hove-to alongside, caught a rope thrown by Dick, and pulled his craft as near the deck of the submarine as the rounded bulwarks would permit. A plank was pushed over the side of the sailboat, and Bob and Dick climbed over the lifting and shaking board.

“Golly, boss,” remarked the negro, “dat’s de funniest boat dat I ever seen in dis port. Looks like er bar’l on er raft.”

“Never mind that,” said Bob, “but lay us alongside the wharf as soon as you can.”

The two negroes comprising the sailboat’s crew were Caribs. They talked together in their native tongue, every word seeming to end in “boo” or “boo-hoo.”

“A whoop, two grunts, and a little blubbering,” said Dick, “will give a fellow a pretty fair Carib vocabulary. What ails Cassidy?”

“I think he sampled the flask of brandy when he brought it to the captain,” replied Bob.

“That was plain enough, for he had a breath like a rum cask. But it wasn’t that alone that made him so grouchy. There’s something else at the bottom of his locker.”

“Well, he’s the mate,” went on Bob, dropping his voice and turning a cautious look on the two negroes, “and I suppose he thinks Captain Nemo, junior, ought to have put him in command. To have a fellow like me jumped over his head may have touched him a little.”

“Probably,” murmured Dick, “but it’s a brand-new side of his character Cassidy’s showing. I never suspected it of him. Do you think the captain’s trouble is anything serious?”

“I hope not, Dick, but I’m worried. The sickness came on so suddenly I hardly know what to think.”

“He may have some of the poison from that idol’s head still under his hatches. It’s queer, though, that he should be so long getting over it, when Carl cut himself adrift from the same thing so handsomely.”

“Things of that kind never affect two people in exactly the same way.”

The negroes brought their boat alongside the wharf. As Bob paid for their services, and climbed ashore, Dick called his attention to the Grampus. Cassidy could be seen on the speck of deck running the Stars and Stripes to the top of the short flagstaff. The other sailboat, to the boys’ surprise, was standing in close to the submarine.

Having finished with the flag, Cassidy could be seen to throw a rope to the skipper of the sailboat, and then, a moment later, to spring aboard.

“What does that move mean?” queried Dick.

“Give it up,” answered Bob, with a mystified frown. “Probably we shall know, before long. Just now, though, we’ve got to think of the captain and send off a doctor to the Grampus.”

Turning away, he and Dick walked rapidly to the shore and on into the town.

CHAPTER IV.
THE AMERICAN CONSUL.

“There’s a bobby,” cried Dick, catching sight of a policeman, “a real London bobby, blue-and-white striped cuffs and all. We’ll bear down on him, Bob, and ask the way to the American consul’s.”

The policeman was kind and obliging. Drawing the boys out into the street, he pointed to a low, white building with the American flag flying over the door. There were palms and trees around the building, and a middle-aged man in white ducks was sitting in a canvas chair on the veranda. He was Mr. Hays Jordan, and when the boys told him they were from the submarine Grampus, the consul got up and took them by the hand.

Bob lost not a moment in telling of the captain’s illness, and of his desire for a doctor and of comfortable lodging ashore. The consul seemed disappointed by the news.

“I reckon that puts a stop to the work that brought the Grampus here,” said the consul.

“Not at all,” replied Bob. “The Grampus is at the service of the government within an hour, if necessary.”

“But who’s in charge of the boat?”

“I am.”

Mr. Hays Jordan looked Bob over, up and down, and started to give an incredulous whistle. But there was something in the youth’s bearing, and in the firm, gray eye that caused him to quit whistling.

“Well!” he exclaimed. “Pretty young to be skipper of a submarine, aren’t you?”

Here Dick interposed. “He’s old for his age, if I do say it, and Captain Nemo, junior, is a master hand at taking the sizing of a fellow. He selected Bob Steele to engineer this piece of work, and, if you keep your weather eye open, it won’t be long until you rise to the fact that the captain knew what he was about.”

“The captain ought to have a doctor without loss of time,” interposed Bob, impatient because of the time they were losing, “and he must have a place to stay.”

“We’ll not send a sick man to the hotel,” said Mr. Jordan, “but to a boarding house kept by an American. And we’ll also have an American doctor to look after him.” He slapped his hands. In answer to the summons a negro appeared from inside the house. “Go over to Doctor Seymour, Turk,” said the consul, “and ask him to come here.”

“We might be able to save time,” put in Bob, “if my friend went with your servant and took the doctor directly to the submarine.”

“Fine!” exclaimed the consul, and Dick and the negro hurried away.

“Sit down, my boy,” said the consul, waving his hand toward a chair, “and we’ll chat a little. I reckon I ought not to say much to you until I talk with Captain Nemo, junior, and make sure everything is right and proper. Still——”

“Here are my credentials,” said Bob, and handed over the letter which he had recently read aloud in the periscope room of the Grampus.

The consul glanced over the letter.

“I’ll take you on that showing, Bob Steele,” said he heartily, as he handed the letter back. “If anything is done for my friend Coleman, it’s got to be done with a rush. The little states all around us are able to have a revolution whenever some one happens to think of it. There’s one on now, and Captain James Sixty was to help on the fighting by landing a cargo of guns and ammunition. Sixty’s work, as you may know, was nipped in the bud, and the revolutionists are having a hard time of it. But they’re still active, and about two weeks ago, when Sixty failed to arrive with the war material and they were afraid he had been captured by the United States authorities, the hotheaded greasers planned reprisal. That reprisal was about the most foolish thing you ever heard of. They spirited away my friend Coleman; then they sent me a letter saying that Coleman would be released whenever the United States government gave up Sixty—and, at that time, Sixty wasn’t in the hands of the authorities at all. He had just simply failed to show up with the contraband of war, and the revolutionists imagined he had been bagged. I communicated with Washington at once, and it was that, I reckon, that gave the state department a line on Sixty.”

“Is Mr. Coleman in any danger?” asked Bob.

“You never can tell what a lot of firebrands will do. They’re bound to hear of Sixty’s capture, and of the confiscation of his lawless cargo. The news will get to them soon, and when that happens Coleman is likely to have trouble. If possible, he must be rescued from the revolutionists ahead of the receipt of this information about Sixty and the lost guns. It’s a tremendously hard piece of work, and only a submarine boat with an intrepid crew, to my notion, will stand any show of success. If a small boat from a United States warship was to try to go to the rescue, the revolutionists would learn she was coming and would immediately take to the jungles of the interior with their captive. See what I mean?”

“Mr. Coleman’s captors are somewhere on the sea-coast?”

“Not exactly. They have a rendezvous on the River Izaral, which runs into the Gulf of Amatique, to the south of here. The revolutionists have tried to make people think that they have Coleman somewhere on the Rio Dolce, but that would put the whole unlawful game in British territory, and wherever the British flag flies you’ll find lawbreakers mighty careful.”

The consul looked around cautiously and then hitched his chair closer to Bob’s.

“I haven’t been idle, Bob Steele,” he went on, lowering his voice. “I have had spies at work, and one of them has reported the exact location of the revolutionists’ camp. Acting as a log cutter, he came close to the place. This man will lead you to the exact spot—and, as good luck has it, he’s a pilot and knows the coast.”

“I should think,” hazarded Bob, “that the United States government could make a demand on the president of the republic where all this lawless work is going on, and force him to rescue Mr. Coleman.”

The consul laughed.

“You don’t know Central America, my lad,” he answered. “It’s as hard for the president of the republic to get at the revolutionists as for anybody else. Meanwhile, Coleman’s in danger. We can’t wait for a whole lot of useless red-tape proceedings. We’ve got to strike, and to strike hard and quick. But we’ve got to do it secretly, quietly—getting Coleman away before the revolutionists know what we’re doing. Understand?”

Bob nodded.

“We’ll not do any fighting if it’s possible to avoid it,” proceeded the consul, “for that would merely complicate matters. Besides, what could a handful of strangers do against a horde of rascally niggers? Softly is the word. We’ve got to jump into ’em, and then out again quicker than scat—and when we come out, we’ve got to have Coleman.”

“Are you going with us, Mr. Jordan?” asked Bob.

The consul started and gave Bob a bored look.

“Going with you?” he drawled. “Why not? It isn’t often we have anything exciting, here in Honduras, and I wouldn’t miss the chance for a farm. Coleman lives where he never knows what minute is going to be his last, and he’s continually guessing as to where the lightning is going to strike, and when. About all I do is lie around in a hammock, fight mosquitoes, take a feed now and then at Government House, and drop in at an English club here every evening for a rubber at whist. It’s deadly monotonous, my lad, to a fellow who comes from the land of snap and ginger.”

“I’ll be glad to have you along,” said Bob. “When had we better start?”

“This afternoon.” The consul picked his solar hat off the railing of the veranda and got up. “I’m going over to the boarding house,” he added, “to make arrangements for Captain Nemo, junior. It’s just around the corner, and I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Make yourself comfortable until I return.”

“I’ll get along all right,” answered Bob.

Jordan got up, descended the steps, swung away down the street, and quickly vanished around a corner.

The scenery was all new and strange to Bob, and he allowed his eyes to wander up and down the street. The houses were white bungalows, some of them surrounded by high white fences, and with tufted palms nodding over their roofs.

Negro women passed by with baskets on their heads, dark-skinned laborers in bell-crowned straw hats slouched up and down, and a group of tawny soldiers from a West India regiment, wearing smart Zouave uniforms and turbans, jogged past.

As soon as Bob had exhausted the sights in his immediate vicinity, he lay back in the chair and gave his thoughts to the captain.

He had always liked Nemo, junior. The captain had been a good friend to Bob Steele and his chums, and the young motorist hoped in his heart that his present illness would not take a serious turn.

While Bob was turning the subject over in his mind, two men came along the walk and started for the steps leading to the veranda of the consulate.

Bob, suddenly lifting his eyes, was surprised to note that one of the men was Cassidy. The other was a white, sandy-whiskered individual in a dingy blue coat and cap and much-worn dungaree trousers.

Both were plainly under the influence of liquor. They came unsteadily up the steps and Cassidy made a bee line for Bob.

Cassidy’s weather-beaten face was flushed and there was an angry, unreasoning light in his eyes.

“I’m next to you, Bob Steele,” growled the mate, posting himself in front of the youth and clinching his big fists. “You’ve pulled the wool over the old man’s eyes in great shape, but you can’t fool me!”

Cassidy, when his mind was clear and when he was not under the delusion of a fancied wrong, was a good fellow. He had cared for Captain Nemo, junior, when he was lying ill in New Orleans, and countless times he had given Bob and his chums proof of his friendship for them. Cassidy was off his bearings now, but Bob felt more like arguing with him than showing authority.

“You are not yourself, Cassidy,” said the young motorist. “Why did you leave the Grampus?”

“That’s my business,” snarled the mate.

“Well, take my advice and go back there. No one is trying to deceive the captain.”

“You’ve wormed yourself into his confidence, and what has he done to me?” There was bitterness in the mate’s voice. “I’m the one that ought to be cap’n of the submarine, and, by thunder, I’m going to be!”

Bob got up from his chair, his eyes flashing.

“You’re going to obey orders, Cassidy,” said he, “if you want to stay with the Grampus. I’m in command, and I’ll give you just a minute to leave here and make for the wharf. If——”

At that moment the mate’s crazy wrath got the better of him. With a hoarse oath, he lurched forward and struck at Bob with his fist. Bob avoided the blow with a quick side step.

“Now’s yer chance, Cassidy,” breathed the husky voice of the man who had come with the mate. “It’s now or never if you want to put him down an’ out.”

The fellow, as he spoke, slouched toward Bob with doubled fists. Bob had not the same consideration for this stranger that he had for the mate, and immediately after evading Cassidy’s blow he whirled about.

“Who are you?” he demanded sharply.

For answer, the man tried to get in a blow on his own account. But he was not quick enough. With a nimble leap forward, Bob swung his own fist straight from the shoulder. The dingy blue cap flew off and its owner reeled against the side of the building. Just then Bob felt the arms of the mate going around him from behind.

At the same moment, however, footsteps came swiftly along the walk, mounted the steps, and Cassidy was caught by the throat in a firm grip.

CHAPTER V.
TIMELY FORBEARANCE.

“What’s all this? Two webfeet sailing into one lone-handed youngster! And he seems to be holding his own pretty well, at that. Let go, you!”

With that, Jordan wrenched Cassidy away and flung him heavily against one of the veranda posts.

The stranger, scowling and nursing a bruise on his chin, was gathering up his blue cap. Cassidy, panting and wheezing, was leaning against the post and glaring wrathfully at the consul.

“That man,” said Bob, pointing toward the mate, “is Cassidy, second in command aboard the submarine. He takes it hard because Captain Nemo, junior, placed me in charge, and he came ashore without authority. Who the other fellow is, I don’t know; but I presume he is some trouble maker the mate picked up.”

“Trouble maker is right,” went on Jordan. “That describes the rascal exactly. I know him. He’s Fingal, master of a shady schooner called the North Star, an all-around bad one, and the authorities in a dozen ports in Central America will tell you the same. We’ll land him in the lockup. And as for Cassidy, it’s against regulations for an officer to attack one who outranks him. We’ll put him in the cooler, too.”

The consul was about to call some one from the house with the intention of sending for an officer, when Bob interposed.

“I don’t want to do anything like that, Jordan. These men have been drinking.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“But Cassidy, when he’s not half-seas over and got a fancied grievance, is a good fellow. He has proved that to me a hundred times. Besides, Captain Nemo, junior, thinks a lot of him.”

“Well, he can’t think much of the captain,” answered the consul dryly, “or he’d pay more attention to his orders. What do you want to do with the two men?”

“Let Fingal go about his business, if he has any. As for Cassidy, he can go back to the submarine and give his brain a chance to clear. After that he’ll see things differently.”

“I know my rights,” snapped Cassidy, shuffling around belligerently, “and I’m going to hold out for ’em. I’ve been mate of the Grampus ever since she was launched. And now that the old man’s laid up, I ought to be master. This here Bob Steele hasn’t been on the submarine more’n two weeks, put together.”

“Did you hear Captain Nemo, junior, say that Bob Steele was to be put in charge of the craft?” queried Jordan.

“I heard it, but——”

“Did the rest of the crew hear it?”

“Yes, only they——”

“Everybody understands the situation, then?”

“I guess they do, if——”

“Then this is a case of all cry and no wolf. You’re making a fool of yourself, Cassidy, let alone showing mighty poor taste. Bob Steele is showing a whole lot more forbearance than I’d ever do, in the same circumstances. You made an attack on your commanding officer——”

“I don’t admit he’s that,” broke in Cassidy fiercely.

“Nonsense, man!” cried the consul, out of patience. “You’d admit it quick enough if you weren’t drunk.”

“What business you got buttin’ into this, anyway?”

Jordan pointed to the flag.

“This is a patch of American soil right in the middle of a foreign country,” said he. “That flag is yours and mine, and I’m here to adjust just such differences as this between my fellow countrymen. Bob Steele is captain of the Grampus, and you’ve heard his orders. If you and Fingal don’t clear out, I’ll call a policeman and have the pair of you taken to the lockup.”

Fingal edged away toward the veranda steps. As he drew close to Cassidy, he muttered something. The mate gave a thick response, and the two lurched down the steps and out of sight along the walk.

“Fingal,” said Jordan, after watching the two out of sight, “is setting the mate up to act as he’s doing. His influence is bad, particularly as the mate appears to be a good deal of a numskull without much reasoning ability of his own.”

“He has always been a first-rate hand,” returned Bob regretfully, “up in his duties and entirely reliable. This sudden move of his is one of the biggest surprises I ever had sprung on me.”

“That’s the way with some people. Give ’em the idea that they’ve been imposed on, and they’re just weak enough in the head to make all sorts of trouble. If you’ve got the rest of the crew with you, though, it will be easy enough to take care of Cassidy. However, if he wanted to he could make lots of trouble for this expedition.”

“I’ll see that he doesn’t do that. If he shows a disposition along that line, I’ll have him locked in the torpedo room. Why he ever came here and set upon me like he did, is a mystery. I guess it was because he was too drunk to know what he was doing.”

“That’s an easy way to explain it,” was the consul’s sarcastic comment. “On the other hand, he may have come here with the expectation of doing something to you that would make it necessary for you to be left in Belize with Captain Nemo, junior.”

“No,” answered Bob firmly, “I can’t believe that.”

“You’re altogether too easy,” proceeded the consul. “If you were left here with a couple of fractured ribs, or a broken arm, Cassidy would be the only one left to command the Grampus.”

Bob shook his head. “Cassidy isn’t a brute,” said he. “I’d like to know, though, why this chap, Fingal, is putting in his oar.”

“He’s got an ax to grind. Drunk or sober, Abner Fingal always has his eye on the main chance.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s a Yank, from somewhere up in Maine, but he’s been in these waters so long he’s about half Spanish. Crooked as a dog’s hind leg—that’s Fingal for you. Sometimes he hoists the flag of Costa Rica, sometimes that of Nicaragua, and now and then the cross of St. George. But no matter what colors he sails under, he’s the same old sixpence. Too bad Cassidy fell in with him! But there’s no use of our wasting any time on those fellows. We’ve got the job of our lives ahead of us, and we’ve got to get the work started. Any arms aboard the Grampus?”

“I thought you said there wasn’t to be any fighting?”

“I hope there won’t be, my lad, and we’ll do everything possible to avoid it, but there’s always a chance of being mistaken in our calculations. How’s the submarine armed?”

“There’s a Whitehead torpedo in the torpedo room.”

“We’ll not use any torpedoes. If there’s a scrap, it will be on the land and hand to hand. Any rifles or ammunition aboard?”

“None that I know about.”

“Then I’ll bring a few guns, merely to be on the safe side. You’ll attend to the other equipment?”

“About all we’ll need is a barrel of gasoline. I can pick that up and have it taken off to the boat.”

“I’ll come aboard, bringing this pilot I was telling you about, and the rest of the plunder, along toward evening. We’ll drop down the coast to-night and start for the rendezvous of the revolutionists in the morning. It will be well, I think, to go up the river with the Grampus submerged. In that manner we shall be able to hide our approach. However, that is something we can settle later. If you——”

The consul paused, his eyes down the street.

“Well,” he muttered, “here comes your friend, Ferral, and he appears to be in a tearing hurry. I wonder if anything has gone wrong with Nemo, junior?”

This thought was uppermost in Bob’s mind as he sprang to the top of the steps and watched Dick running toward the consulate along the street.

“What’s up, Dick?” he asked anxiously, as his chum came close. “Is the captain all right?”

“They’re bringing him on a stretcher, and the doctor thinks he’ll be all right in a few days,” Dick answered. “It wasn’t that that made me hurry, but something else.”

“What else?”

“Cassidy. As we were coming ashore with the captain, I saw the mate pulling off to a schooner that was anchored half a mile t’other side of the Grampus. There was a man with him in a blue cap and coat. They were aboard the schooner when we hit the landing, and before we started for town, the schooner’s anchor was tripped and she was off down the coast with every rag of sail hoisted and drawing. What does that mean? What’s Cassidy up to?”

Bob was astounded. Turning blankly on Jordan, he saw that his face was clouded and ominous.

CHAPTER VI.
ON THE JUMP.

“You say the schooner got away to the south, Ferral?” asked Jordan.

“Yes, and looked as though she was bound for down the coast. Looks as though Cassidy had deserted, Bob.”

“We ought to have jailed him,” commented Jordan. “Did Cassidy know anything about the sealed orders, Bob?”

“Captain Nemo, junior, had me read the orders aloud in the periscope room,” Bob answered. “Cassidy had been in the conning tower, but when I finished with the letter I saw that he was in the room with us.”

Jordan’s face grew even more foreboding.

“This looks bad!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t trust that Fingal man around the corner, and here he’s run off with Cassidy and headed down the coast. There’s something in the wind, and if our game is tipped off before we get to where we’re going it will be a case of up-sticks with Coleman.”

“I don’t think Cassidy would dare tip off our work to Fingal!” exclaimed Bob, somewhat dashed by the course of events.

“A drunken man is liable to do anything.”

“But what would Cassidy have to gain by telling Fingal our business to the southward?”

“Why, as for that, Fingal has been suspected of helping those same revolutionists. If he can help the scoundrels hang on to Coleman, they might make it worth his while.”

“The letter I read in the periscope room,” said Bob, after a moment’s thought, “spoke of the Rio Dolce as the place where Coleman was being held. This, you tell me, is wrong. In that event, and assuming that Cassidy heard the whole of the letter, then he has a clew that’s not to be depended on.”

“Fingal must know the Rio Dolce is not the place. The fact that the schooner bore away to the south proves that some one has correct information. No, Bob, Fingal has learned through Cassidy just why the Grampus put in at Belize; and Cassidy, intoxicated as he is and worked up over a fancied grievance, has cast in his lot with the schooner. The pair of them are off to the south to make trouble for us, take my word for it. What we must do is to get away as close on their heels as possible. We can’t wait until evening, but must proceed on the jump and get away without losing any more time than necessary.”

“Wait a minute,” spoke up Dick. “You remember, Bob, that there was a schooner that took Captain Sixty off the fruiter Santa Maria, and sailed with him to find the derelict brig. That schooner was to take off the arms and ammunition from the wreck, and would have done so if the submarine hadn’t shown up and been backed by the cruiser Seminole.”

“I remember that,” said Bob. “What of it, Dick?”

“Well, I think the schooner that took Cassidy and the other swab south is the same one that figured in our affairs a few days ago.”

To all appearances the consul had had news relative to these events in the gulf. As soon as Dick had finished, he slapped his hands excitedly.

“Jupiter!” he exclaimed. “This is more proof that Fingal is hand and glove with the revolutionists. This new move, Bob, means that that pair of scamps are off for the south to put a spoke in our wheel. We can’t delay the start an instant longer than we find necessary to finish our preparations.”

Before Bob could answer, an open carriage drove along the street. The doctor was in the rear seat supporting the captain. The latter looked like a very sick man indeed, and was leaning feebly against the doctor’s arm.

“Don’t tell him anything about Cassidy’s running away,” cautioned Bob, starting down the steps and toward the road. “It would only worry him, and we’ll carry out the work that has been given to us, in spite of Cassidy and Fingal.”

“He knows about it already,” said Dick. “We discovered Cassidy and the other chap making for the schooner while we were coming ashore.”

“Did the captain give Cassidy permission to leave the submarine?”

“No. Carl said that the captain became unconscious just when the mate started up to hoist the flag, and that the mate took another pull at the flask and went on up the conning-tower ladder. It was French leave he took, nothing less. As soon as Doctor Armstrong got to the Grampus he wasn’t any time at all in bringing the captain to his senses, and the first man Nemo, junior, asked about was Cassidy.”

By that time the carriage, which was proceeding slowly, was opposite Bob, Dick, and Jordan, who formed a little group on the sidewalk. In response to a gesture from the captain, the vehicle came to a halt.

“You are the American consul?” asked the captain, making an effort to straighten up.

“Yes,” replied Jordan.

“I am Captain Nemo, junior, of the submarine Grampus. My unfortunate illness puts me out of the work that lies ahead of the boat and her crew, but Bob Steele, there, is perfectly capable of discharging the duties of master. I should feel quite sure of the outcome if it was not for the mate. He has deserted, and I am positive he intends to make trouble. You must get away as soon as possible, Bob. Cassidy went the other way from the Rio Dolce—which is a move I can’t understand, if he is planning to interfere with the rescue of Coleman.”

Bob and Jordan exchanged quick looks. The captain, having no information to the contrary, was still under the impression conveyed by the sealed orders, viz.: that the captured consul was on the Rio Dolce instead of the River Izaral. Neither Bob nor Jordan attempted to set the captain straight.

Evidently the captain had talked more than was good for him, for when he finished he collapsed, and had hardly strength enough to say good-by. As he was driven off, Bob gazed after him sympathetically.

“Strange that a few hours should make such a difference in Captain Nemo, junior,” he murmured.

“The climatic change perhaps had something to do with it, Bob,” suggested Jordan. “But we can’t stand around here, my lad. We’ve got to hustle—and this isn’t a very good climate to hustle in, either. It’s the land of take-it-easy. You get the submarine in shape, and I’ll hunt up the pilot, get together the war plunder and my own traps, and join you just as quick as the nation will let me. On the jump, my lad, on the jump.”

Jordan, suddenly energetic, turned and hastened back into the consulate.

“There’s a whole lot to that land lubber,” remarked Dick. “He’s as full of snap and get-there as any chap I ever saw. But what’s the first move? You’re the skipper, now, and it’s up to you to lay the course.”

“We’ve plenty of stores aboard for the trip we’re to make, with the exception of gasoline. The Grampus will be in strange waters on a secret mission, and we must make sure of an abundant supply of fuel at the start-off.”

The boys were not long in finding a place where they could secure the gasoline, and but little longer in getting a negro carter to convey the barrel to the landing. Here the same colored boatman who had brought Bob and Dick ashore was waiting, and the barrel was loaded and carried out to the submarine.

The sailboat hove to as close alongside the Grampus as she could get, and both vessels were made fast to each other by ropes. The gasoline barrel was tapped, a hose run out from the conning-tower hatch, and the negroes laid hold of a pump and emptied the barrel into the gasoline reservoir of the submarine.

Dick took charge of the transfer of the gasoline, while Bob went down into the periscope room and called up Speake, Clackett, and Gaines.

“Friends,” said he, “we’re off on a short cruise in strange waters—a cruise that will probably call for courage, and will certainly require tact and caution. Mr. Hays Jordan, the American consul, is going with us, and when he comes aboard he will bring a pilot who knows where we are to go and will take us there. You men know that it is Captain Nemo, junior’s, order that I take charge of the work ahead of us. Have you any objection to that?”

“The captain knew his business,” averred Gaines heartily, “and whatever is good enough for him is good enough for us.”

Speake and Clackett likewise expressed themselves in the same whole-souled manner.

“Thank you, my lads,” said Bob. “I suppose you have heard how the mate went off in a huff. That makes us short-handed, in a way, although the pilot we’re to take on will help out. Our work is government work, something for Old Glory, and I feel that we will all of us do our best. We shall have to run all night, and I will arrange to have Ferral relieve Gaines, and Carl relieve Clackett. As for Speake, he will have abundant opportunity to rest, as most of our night work will be on the surface. Speake may now get us something to eat, and after that you will all go to your stations.”

Speake was not long in getting his electric stove to work. There were only a few provisions he could prepare without causing an offensive odor, and the limited menu was quickly on the table. Hardly was the meal finished when a boat hove alongside with Jordan. Bob, Dick, and Carl went up on deck to assist the consul in getting his traps aboard.

Jordan had exchanged his white ducks for a trim suit of khaki. Two belts were around his waist, one of them fluted with cartridges, and the other supporting a brace of serviceable revolvers. With him came three rifles and a box of ammunition.

The pilot was an unkempt half-blood named Tirzal. He was bareheaded and barefooted, and had a ferret-like face and shifty, beadlike eyes.

As soon as the impedimenta was stowed below decks, Bob instructed Tirzal in the steering of the submarine. The boat could be maneuvered either from the conning tower or from the periscope room. When maneuvered from the conning tower, the pilot stood on the iron ladder, using his eyes over the top of the tower hatch; when steered from below, compass and periscope were used.

Tirzal grasped the details with surprising quickness, his little eyes snapping with wonder as they saw the panorama of ocean, shore, and shipping on the mirror top of the periscope table.

While these instructions were going forward, Gaines and Dick had gone into the motor room, Clackett and Carl had posted themselves in the place from which the submerging tanks were operated, and Speake had gone forward into the torpedo room.

“We’re all ready,” said Bob. “Take to the conning tower, Tirzal, and give your signals.”

The half-breed, as proud as a peacock to have the management of this strange craft under his hands, got up the ladder until only his bare feet and legs from the knees down were visible.

Bob, posting himself by the periscope, divided his attention between the panorama unfolded there and the work of Tirzal. He was considerably relieved by the handy manner in which the half-breed took hold of his work.

With ballast tanks empty, and the Grampus riding as high in the water as she could, the motor got to work the instant the anchors were off the bottom and stowed.

“We’re off, Jordan!” cried Bob.

“Off on one of the strangest cruises I ever took part in,” returned the consul, his face glowing with the novelty of the situation; “and it’s a cruise, my boy,” he added, a little more soberly, “which is going to demand all our resourcefulness in the matter of tact, skill, and courage. Even then there’s a chance that we——”

Jordan did not finish, but gave Bob a look which expressed plainly all that he had left unsaid.

CHAPTER VII.
THE LANDING PARTY.

During that night run down the coast the Grampus was driven at full speed. The electric projector was fitted against the lunettes of the conning tower, and threw an eye of light far out over the dark water.

It was the hope of those aboard the submarine that they would be able to overhaul and pass the schooner, North Star, which, presumably, was rushing on ahead of them to interfere in some manner with the work cut out for the Grampus.

The schooner had about three hours’ start of the submarine, but the latter craft was keeping to the surface and traveling at such a speed that it was thought she would surely overtake the other boat before the mouth of the Izaral was reached.

However, in this Bob and Jordan were disappointed. They passed one steamer, creeping up the coast, but not another craft did they see.

“The North Star won’t be able to ascend the Izaral, anyhow,” commented Jordan. “If Fingal communicates with the revolutionists, he will have to send a small boat—and perhaps we can overhaul that boat before it reaches the headquarters of the insurgent force.”

There was a certain amount of sleep for everybody aboard the Grampus, that night, but Bob Steele. Dick and Carl slept the first half of the night, and, after that, relieved Gaines and Clackett; Speake caught cat naps off and on; Jordan stretched himself out on top of the locker in the periscope room and took his forty winks with nothing to bother him; and Tirzal, when the submarine was in a fairly clear stretch of her course, was relieved by Bob and sent down to curl up on the floor and snore to his heart’s content.

The tireless motor hummed the song familiar in Bob’s ears, and the excitement of the work in prospect kept him keyed to highest pitch in spite of his loss of rest.

In the gray of early morning, an hour after Bob had turned off the electric projector, he sighted the mouth of a river with high, bluffy banks on each side. On one of the banks, peeping out from a covert of royal palms, was a small village. Directly across the stream from the village, commanding both the river and the small harbor in front of the town, was a rude fort.

Bob called Tirzal.

“She’s de ruvver, all right, you bet,” declared Tirzal, after taking a look at the periscope. “Stop um boat, boss,” he added. “We no want de people in de town to see um.”

Bob halted the submarine with the touch of a push button.

“We’d better submerge, Bob,” called Jordan. “That’s the way we’ve got to get up the river, and it’s our proper course for dodging around the town. Can you see anything of the schooner?”

“There are only a few small native boats in the harbor,” answered Bob. “The schooner isn’t in sight.”

“Beats the deuce what’s become of the boat,” growled the consul. “If she sent a launch up the river, the schooner ought to be somewhere around, waiting for the launch to get back.”

“She may have pulled off down the coast just to keep clear of us. How’s the water in the river?”

“Him planty deep to where we go, boss,” spoke up Tirzal. “Some time him t’irty feet, mos’ly fifty feet. Eberyt’ing go fine if we keep in de channel.”

“We’ll be on the safe side,” went on Bob, “and just swing along with the water over our decks and the top of the conning tower. Ten-foot submergence, Clackett,” he added through a speaking tube connecting with the tank room.

“Aye, aye, sir,” came back the voice of Clackett.

The hiss of escaping air as the water came into the tanks was heard, and Bob secured the hatch and came down the ladder.

The hissing ceased suddenly.

“We’re ten feet down, Bob,” reported Clackett through the tube.

“Take the wheel, Tirzal!” said Bob.

With head under the periscope hood and one hand on the wheel, Tirzal rang for slow speed ahead. Bob and Jordan likewise gave their attention to the periscope mirror and watched, with curious wonder, while the tropical river unfolded beneath their eyes like a moving picture.

The Izaral was bank-full. As the Grampus rounded the northern bluff and swerved into the river channel, the high, steep banks, covered with dense foliage, resembled a narrow lane with a blank wall at its farther end. When the boat pushed into the stream, however, and fought the current for three or four hundred yards, the seemingly blank wall gave place to an abrupt turn.

The submarine took the turn and entered upon another stretch of the lane.

This part of the river was as perfect a solitude as though removed thousands of miles from human habitations. At a distance of perhaps two miles from the coast the high banks dwindled to low rises, and on each side was an unbroken forest; the banks were overflowed; the trees seemed to grow out of the water, their branches spreading across so as almost to shut out the light of the sun and were reflected in the water as in a mirror.

Birds of gaudy plumage fluttered among the trees, and here and there, in a bayou, alligators could be seen stretching their torpid bodies in the black ooze.

Tirzal kept his eyes glued to the periscope. The channel was crooked and dangerous, and a moment’s neglect might hurl the submarine into a muddy bank, causing trouble and delay, if not actual peril.

For two or three miles farther, Tirzal kept the river channel. Finally they came close to a spot where a deep, narrow stream entered the Izaral on the right. Tirzal turned into this branch and, after ascending it for some fifty yards, had the propeller slowed until it just counteracted the current and held the Grampus stationary.

“We got to de place, boss,” said Tirzal, lifting himself erect with a deep breath of relief. “Now we come to de top an’ tie de boat to a couple ob trees on de sho’.”

“Where are the revolutionists?” asked Bob.

“Dey a good way off, boss. We hab to take to de bank an’ go find um. I know de way. Here’s where de boats come. You see dat pitpan close by de bank? Him rebels’ boat.”

“Do you suppose,” queried Bob, turning to the consul, “that the schooner sent word to the rebels by means of the pitpan?”

Jordan shook his head perplexedly.

“They wouldn’t do that. The pitpan is no more than a mahogany log, hollowed out, and would be a poor sort of craft to row against the current of the Izaral while it’s at the flood. I can’t understand why we don’t see or hear something connected with the schooner. Perhaps”—the consul’s face brightened—“Fingal and Cassidy are on the wrong track, after all.”

“You go to de top, boss,” put in Tirzal, “an’ me swim asho’ wid rope; den we warp um boat close to de bank.”

As a preparation for his swim, the half-breed began to divest himself of his clothes.

Bob gave the order to empty the ballast tanks by compressed air, and the Grampus rose to the surface to the tune of water splashing from the tanks.

“A party will have to land for the purpose of reconnoitering the position of the rebels,” said Jordan. “I would suggest, Bob, that the landing party consist of myself, Tirzal, of course, and some other person who you think can be easily spared. A strong force will have to remain with the Grampus, for our situation is encompassed with dangers. Before we can plan our dash successfully, we shall have to know something of the lay of the land and the disposition of the force that is guarding Coleman.”

“You are right,” returned Bob. “I ought to remain with the submarine——”

“And get a little sleep,” cut in the consul. “You’ve been on duty all night and must rest so as to be ready for the sharp work when it comes.”

“I’ll have Speake go with you and Tirzal,” said Bob. “How long will you be gone, Jordan?”

“Not more than two or three hours at the outside.”

By then the Grampus was at the surface, and Bob climbed the ladder and threw back the hatch. Gaining the dripping iron deck, he looked and listened. The thick forest lay on every side, and the silence was broken only by the flapping of wings, and the lazy splash of alligators in a near-by bayou.

Tirzal, a rope around his waist, scrambled clear of the conning tower and slipped from the deck into the water. He swam swiftly and silently to the bank, pulled himself up, untied the end of the rope from about his waist, and passed it around a tree.

Dick gained the deck, made the boat end of the rope fast to an iron ring in the bow, and watched while Tirzal lay back on the cable with all his strength and hauled the bow shoreward, a foot at a time.

“The bank is steep,” announced Dick, “and we can, run the nose of the old craft right into solid ground.”

“That will make it easier for Jordan and Speake to land,” said Bob.

A few minutes of pulling on Tirzal’s part brought the point of the submarine’s bow against the bank. Speake had come up on deck with one of the rifles. A moment later Jordan followed him, with Carl trailing along in his wake.

Jordan carried two rifles, one for himself and one for Tirzal, and also Tirzal’s bundle of clothes.

“We’re taking all the rifles, Bob,” said Jordan, “but I have left my cartridge belt and six-shooters in the periscope room. If you should be attacked—which I hardly expect—your best defense will be to sink to the bottom of the river. We’ll be back in three hours. If we’re not, you’ll know something has gone wrong with us. But don’t fret about that. Tirzal knows the country, and he’ll steer us clear of trouble.”

Speake and Jordan made their way to the point of the bow and sprang ashore. As soon as Tirzal had slipped into his clothes and grasped the rifle, the three comprising the landing party waved their hands to those on the deck of the boat and vanished into the forest.

“Dose fellers vas going to haf all der fun,” grumbled Carl.

“I don’t think anybody is going to have a monopoly of ‘fun,’ as you call it, Carl,” said Bob grimly. “You and Dick stay on deck and keep a sharp watch for rebels. I’m going to the periscope room to take a nap. In order to be on the safe side, Dick, you’d better let the Grampus slide back toward the middle of the stream. Leave the cable on the tree and pay it off from the bow of the boat.”

“All right, Bob.”

“Call me if anything happens,” said Bob, climbing into the conning tower.

On reaching the periscope room, he signaled Gaines to stop the motor, and told him and Clackett that the submarine was moored, and that they could either sleep or go on deck, as they preferred. Then, thoroughly tired out by his long night vigil, he stretched himself on the locker and was soon sound asleep.

How long he slept he did not know, but he was suddenly aroused by a pounding of feet on the steel deck, startled cries, and a tremendous splashing of water.

Thinking that Dick and Carl, who had comprised the anchor watch, had been caught napping, and that the revolutionists were making an attack on the boat, he leaped up, caught the first weapon he could lay hold of, and darted for the iron ladder.

The weapon happened to be an old harpoon belonging to Speake, who had once had a berth aboard a whaling ship.

When Bob lifted his head above the rim of the conning-tower hatch, a strange scene met his eyes.

CHAPTER VIII.
CARL IN TROUBLE.

The most prominent object that met Bob Steele’s startled eyes was a big bull alligator. The creature was thrashing about in the water, now striking the sides of the Grampus with its powerful tail, and now making an attack on the pitpan, or dugout canoe.

Carl Pretzel was in the canoe, and he was wildly anxious to get back to the submarine. The alligator, however, was floundering around in the stretch of water between Carl and the Grampus.

“Help!” whooped Carl. “Der man eader vill ged me if you don’d do somet’ing.”

It had not occurred to the Dutch boy that he could go ashore—being much nearer the bank, in fact, than the submarine.

Dick had a hatchet which he had picked up from somewhere on the deck. He rushed back to the conning tower and climbed into it, thus securing an elevated position which offered some advantage in case he hurled the hatchet at the big saurian.

“Paddle ashore, Carl!” called Bob.

“Dot’s so,” gasped Carl; “meppy I vill. Coax der pig feller avay; I don’d like how he uses dot tail of his.”

Carl fell to work with his paddle. By that time, however, the alligator’s temper was aroused, and, before Carl had got the pitpan turned, the big creature glided forward, opened its ponderous jaws and closed them about the forward end of the dugout.

There was a frightful crash, and the sides of the pitpan were stove in like an eggshell. One end of the wrecked boat was pushed high in the water, and Carl, at the other end, was in sore straits.

“Help, or I’m a goner!” yelled Carl, leaping into the water as Bob Steele made ready to hurl the harpoon.

Carl’s predicament had become serious in the extreme. If the enraged reptile turned on him, his doom was sealed. The task for Bob and Dick, which they recognized on the instant, was to wound the alligator and take its attention from the boy in the water.

The harpoon left Bob’s hand, and the hatchet left Dick’s, at the same moment. The hatchet was turned by the reptile’s scaly coat as by so much armor plate. The harpoon, however, by mere chance, stuck just back of the alligator’s foreleg in the place where the hide was not so thick. The big fellow had lifted head and shoulders out of the water in the fierceness of the attack on the pitpan—which fact alone made Bob’s blow possible.

Dick, tumbling out of the conning tower, seized one end of a coil of rope and hurled it toward Carl. The Dutch boy grabbed it, and Dick drew him in rapidly, hand over hand.

The alligator, meantime, had whipped away around the bow of the Grampus, half its head only on the surface, and leaving a reddened trail in its wake. Meanwhile, Carl, sputtering and gasping, fell dripping on the submarine’s deck.

“Am I here?” he mumbled. “I tell you somet’ing, dot vas der glosest call I efer hat in my life!”

He pulled himself up by means of the periscope mast, and shook his fist after the alligator, which was returning to the bayou.

“You don’t make some meals off me, I bed you!” he taunted. “Nexdt time you do a t’ing like dot, meppy I vill haf a rifle hanty. Den I gif you more dan you can take care of.”

“You’ll have to pay Speake for that harpoon, Carl,” laughed Bob.

“Mit bleasure,” answered Carl. “Id vas der harpoon vat safed my life.”

“It’s just as well, I guess,” said Bob, “that the dugout has been destroyed. If we were attacked here by the rebels, the boat would have helped them. But you should not have left the submarine, Carl. The noise we have made here may have been heard. In that event, we can expect trouble.”

Just at that moment, Clackett and Gaines came up through the hatch.

“What’s been going on?” Clackett asked.

“You’ve missed the fun,” returned Dick. “Carl had a little trouble with an alligator, and just got out of it by the skin of his teeth.”

“Clackett an’ me was asleep,” said Gaines. “Blamed funny, though, we didn’t hear the rumpus. What woke me was you fellows, talking and walking over the deck. Haven’t Speake and Jordan shown up yet?”

“What time is it?” asked Bob.

“It was a little after twelve when Clackett an’ me left the torpedo room.”

“Great guns!” exclaimed Bob, startled. “I must have slept longer than I supposed. It was nine o’clock when Jordan and the others went ashore. Jordan said they’d be back in three hours, at the outside. More than three hours have passed and they’re not back.”

Bob’s eyes, suddenly filled with anxiety, swept the tree-covered bank.

“Tirzal knew the country, mate,” said Dick, “and I guess those fellows are wise enough to steer clear of the rebels while they’re trying to locate Coleman.”

“Something may have gone wrong with them, for all that. If Cassidy and Fingal managed to get word to the revolutionists, then quite likely Jordan, Speake, and Tirzal got into a snare. If they did, and if——”

Bob was interrupted by the distant report of a rifle, echoing and reëchoing through the dense timber. There was just one report, and then silence fell again; but, during the silence, the troubled glances of those on the Grampus met questioningly.

“Our landing party has been discovered,” declared Bob, who was first to collect his wits. “Dick and I will go ashore and see if we can be of any help. I’ll leave you, Gaines, in charge of the Grampus. As soon as we are off the boat, you and Clackett and Carl cast off from the shore, go below and sink until the periscope ball is just awash. You may have to put out an anchor to hold the boat against the current. One of you keep constantly at the periscope, watching the left-hand bank. If you see one of us come there and wave his arms, you’ll know we want you to come up and take us aboard. Be as quick as you can, too, for we may be in a hurry.”

“Depend on me, Bob,” said Gaines.

“Depend on all of us,” added Clackett.

Bob turned to his sailor chum.

“Go into the periscope room, Dick,” said he, “and get those two revolvers of Jordan’s. Never mind the belts. Empty out some of the cartridges and put them in your pocket. Hustle, old chap.”

Dick was only gone a few minutes. During that time Gaines and Clackett were busy with the rope, hauling the submarine back to the bank, and Bob was listening for more firing.

No more reports came from the timber, however, and when Dick reappeared and handed Bob one of the revolvers, both hurried to the bow of the submarine and sprang ashore.

“Don’t forget your orders, Gaines,” cautioned Bob.

“You can bank on it that I won’t, Bob,” answered the motorist. “You and Dick look out for yourselves. Don’t make a bad matter worse by letting the revolutionists get a grip on you. If they did, we’d be in hard shape for sure.”

CHAPTER IX.
A FRIEND IN NEED.

At the point where Jordan, Speake, and Tirzal had vanished into the wood, Bob and Dick found a faint path—a path so little traveled and so blind that it could not be seen from the deck of the Grampus, even when she was hauled close to the shore.

“It’s as plain as a handspike,” remarked Dick, as he and Bob made their way along the path, “that Jordan and the others took a slant in this direction.”

“That’s the kind of a guess I’d make,” said Bob. “By following the path, though, we don’t want to forget that they got into trouble. When you’re on a road that leads to trouble, Dick, you’ve either got to leave it or else be mighty careful.”

“I don’t know how we’d get through this jungle if we didn’t follow the path. Tirzal claims to know the country. If that’s a fact, then it’s queer he couldn’t pilot Jordan and Speake around any stray groups of insurrectos.”

“Our failure to see anything of the schooner while we were off the coast, or anything of a launch from the schooner while we were coming up the river, rather gave Jordan the idea that Fingal and Cassidy were on the wrong track. But I’m inclined to think Jordan was wide of his trail. They must have sent word here and enabled the revolutionists to fix up some sort of a trap.”

“I can’t begin to tell you how surprised I am at the way Cassidy is acting—that is, if he’s gone into partnership with Fingal, for the purpose of backcapping our plans to save one of our own countrymen. What sort of a two-faced rascal is Cassidy, anyhow? He must be mighty sore to act like that. But maybe you’re mistaken, Bob.”

“I hope I am,” returned Bob gravely. “I always liked Cassidy, and I hate to see a good man go wrong in such a way as that.”

The boys had dropped their voices to an undertone. While they talked, they hurried along the dim, winding path, keeping their eyes constantly ahead.

Owing to the close growth of trees, but very little sun filtered to the ground below, and a twilight gloom hovered over the narrow way. Bob was in advance, and suddenly he halted, whirled on Dick and pulled him behind a matted vine that hung from a tree beside the path.

“Hist!” whispered Bob, in his chum’s ear. “I can hear voices around the turn in the path ahead. Some one is coming this way. Crouch down and perhaps they’ll go past without seeing us.”

Scarcely breathing, the two boys knelt behind the matted vine, each holding his weapon ready in case they should be discovered and compelled to fight for their freedom.

It was not long before the men whom Bob had heard came straggling around the turn in the path. To their amazement, no less a person than Fingal was at the head of the column. The light was none too good for making observations at a distance, but there could be no mistaking the burly form in the dingy blue cap and coat and dungaree trousers.

Fingal slouched along with the thwartship roll of a sailor with stable ground under him. At his back came half a dozen nondescript men, of various shades of color from coal black to light yellow.

These men, no doubt, formed part of the rebel army. They were all barefooted, their clothes were ragged, and they wore straw hats. Each had a machete strapped about his waist, but there the uniformity of their accouterments ceased. Two had no arms apart from the machetes; one of the remaining four had a long-barreled, muzzle-loading rifle, and the other three had revolvers. Fingal had no rifle, but there was a belt about his waist that supported a six-shooter over his hip.

The file was still talking as it passed the two boys, but it was Spanish talk, and neither Bob nor Dick could understand anything that was said.

Without seeing the boys, the file swept on and vanished around another bend. Bob drew a long breath of relief.

“We’re out of that mess, Dick,” he murmured, getting up and stepping back into the path. “I guess we’ve settled all doubts about Cassidy and Fingal. Fingal’s here, and I’ll bet something handsome Cassidy can’t be very far off.”

“Cassidy’s trying to down us,” growled Dick, “and that’s as plain as the nose on your face. The old scoundrel! He ought to be trussed up at a grating and pounded with the ‘cat’ for this. I never thought it of him! Where do you suppose that pack is going?”

“They’re looking for the Grampus, I guess.”

“And the old Grampus is ten feet under water! If Gaines is next to his job, he’s fixed things so they won’t be able to see even the periscope ball.”

“Trust Gaines to do everything possible. I don’t think the submarine is in any particular danger, but we couldn’t help her any if she were. We’ll keep on and see where this trouble road lands us.”

“All right! Luck seems to be on our side, so far, and here’s hoping that it will stay with us.”

Bob once more took the lead and set the pace. The ground they were covering had a slight inclination upward, and the path continued to wriggle, serpent fashion, through the dense growth of timber.

It was the almost impenetrable screen of the woods that suddenly plunged the boys into difficulties. Rounding an abrupt turn, beyond which it was impossible to see because of the dense foliage, Bob and Dick plunged recklessly into full view of an encampment. It was a large encampment, too, and pitched in the midst of a big clearing. The place was not a hundred yards off, and Bob, pulling himself short up, got a glimpse of black soldiers lolling and smoking under rough canvas shelters.

For an instant he halted and stared; then whirled face about.

“Back, Dick!” he exclaimed. “Run, run for your life!”

The words were hardly necessary. The boys had been seen and a wild clamor came from the encampment. A fizzing sputter of firearms awoke echoes in the timber, and scraps of lead could be heard slapping and zipping through the leaves.

“We might be good for three or four,” panted Dick, as he stretched his legs along the path, “but we have to knock under when the whole rebel army gets after us.”

“Save your breath!” cried Bob. “Run!”

“Where? That other pack, with Fingal, is ahead.”

“Never mind. The largest force is behind.”

The dark-skinned rebels were tearing along like madmen. The boys, looking over their shoulders, could see them wherever the path straightened out into a short, straightaway stretch. At such times, too, some one of the pursuing rabble let fly with a bullet. The bullets went wild, for there is no such thing as accurate shooting by a man who is on the run.

The boys were holding their own—perhaps doing a little better.

“We can distance ’em,” puffed Dick, “if they’ll only give us a little time. We’ll be around the next turn and halfway to the one beyond before they show up again.”

Dick had hardly finished speaking before he came to a sudden halt.

“Keep on!” panted Bob.

“Can’t! We’re between two fires! That other gang has heard the firing and is coming back. Let’s get behind trees and do the best we can for ourselves. Oh, this is a fix!”

Bob was able to hear the men racing along in advance of them, and the larger force behind was drawing nearer and nearer.

The outlook was dark, and the only thing left for the boys to do seemed to be to dig into the dense undergrowth and take their chances of being tracked down.

With one accord they sprang toward the left-hand side of the path. The timber, in that direction, seemed a trifle less thick than on the right.

Before they had vanished they heard a guarded voice calling from the right:

“Bob! Bob Steele!”

Startled at hearing his name, the young fellow paused and whirled about. His astonishment grew. A woman—a young woman—had emerged through the trailing creepers and was beckoning wildly.

“This way!” she called, still in the same guarded tone. “Quick, if you want to save yourselves.”

A moment more, and Bob and Dick both recognized the speaker. She was not one whom they would have trusted had circumstances been other than they were. Just then, however, but little choice was left them.

“It’s that or nothing,” muttered Dick, and he and Bob charged back across the path and followed the girl into a tangle of bushes.

Hardly had they vanished when both parties of pursuers pushed into sight from right and left.

CHAPTER X.
STRANGE REVELATIONS.

The distrust of Bob and Dick, even at the moment when they were hemmed in on both sides by the revolutionists, will be understood when it is explained that their friend in need was none other than Ysabel Sixty.

It was in New Orleans that she had called to see Bob Steele and had told him many things which were not true. Because of this misinformation, Bob Steele had been lured into the hands of Captain Jim Sixty, the filibuster. The girl who had been instrumental in carrying out this plot was Ysabel Sixty, Captain Sixty’s daughter.

The boys were amazed to see her there in that rebel-haunted wilderness, but they repressed their excitement and curiosity until the girl had led them unerringly to a little cleared space in the heart of the woods.

Here there was a rude shelter constructed of a ragged tarpaulin, and an olla, or earthen water jar, suspended from the branches of a tree.

The girl turned and faced the boys as soon as they reached this primitive camp.

“You are safe, for the present,” said she. “I am glad I could do something to help you.”

“Well, what next?” growled Dick, his keen eyes on the girl’s face. “Are you helping us, Ysabel Sixty, or luring us into another trap, as you did up in New Orleans?”

A look of sadness and contrition swept over the girl’s face. It was a pretty face—not so pretty as it had been in New Orleans, for now it was worn and haggard—and that ripple of sorrow touched it softly.

“I have paid for all that,” said the girl slowly. “I have paid for it with more bitter regrets than I can tell. Now, maybe, I can help to undo the wrong. What I did in New Orleans I did not do willingly. My father threatened to kill me if I failed to carry out his wishes. Now he is in the hands of the law, you are free, and I am adrift in this wild country.”

There was something in the girl’s voice that touched both Bob and Dick. It could not be that she was again playing a part, for there was that in her words and manner which told of sincerity.

“How do you happen to be here?” asked Bob.

“My father, as I suppose you have heard, left the steamer Santa Maria to go on the schooner North Star and hunt for his water-logged brig. I continued on to Belize on the Santa Maria, with orders from my father to take the first boat from Belize to Port Livingstone, at the mouth of the Izaral. There I was met by some of General Pitou’s soldiers, and brought out to this camp to wait until my father, or my uncle, should come. My father did not come, and will not. My uncle has already arrived, and to avoid him I have come away by myself, into this part of the woods.”

“Who is your uncle, Ysabel?” asked Bob.

“Abner Fingal.”

“Fingal!” exclaimed both the boys.

“His real name is Sixty,” explained the girl, “and he is my father’s brother. He is captain of the schooner that has been helping the revolutionists, and he has sworn vengeance on all those who had anything to do with my father’s capture.”

“That means us,” said Dick, as he turned for an apprehensive look through the timber in the direction of the path. “I never dreamed of anything like that,” he added.

“It’s not generally known,” said the girl, “that Captain Fingal and Captain Sixty are in any way related. They have both been helping the revolutionists, and, if the uprising was a success, they were to be rewarded.”

“You ran away from the rebel camp in order to avoid Fingal?”

“Yes.”

“Why was that?”

A flush ran through the girl’s haggard face.

“My uncle wants me to marry General Pitou, a Frenchman who is in command of the revolutionists. When I marry”—the words came spitefully and with a stamp of the foot—“I shall marry to please myself, and not some one else.”

“Good for you!” approved Dick. “Don’t let ’em bullyrag you into marrying a Frenchman, anyhow.”

“I heard that my uncle was expected to reach the camp soon,” went on the girl, “and I ran away last night. Pedro, a Mexican who used to be a sailor on my father’s brig, helped me to get away. He fixed that little tent for me, and this morning, when he brought me breakfast, he told me some news.”

“What was that?” inquired Bob, scenting something of importance.

“Why, Pedro said that my uncle, together with another man named Cassidy, had come over from Port Livingstone on a little gasoline boat which they had stolen from the customhouse officer in the town. They brought information that a boat that travels under water was coming to release the American prisoner. Of course”—now the girl smiled a little—“I knew who it was that was coming in that under-water boat, so I made Pedro tell me everything he knew.

“He said the boat was coming from Belize, and that the American consul to British Honduras might come with it. He told me that Fingal informed the general that it would be possible to entrap the other consul, and that this would give the rebels two valuable prisoners to hold until the American government would exchange Captain Sixty for them. The plan was to capture the under-water boat and all on board. Fingal and this man Cassidy were to have the boat, and Fingal was to be allowed to do whatever he pleased with all the prisoners except the consul.”

“We know what that meant,” said Dick, making a wry face. “He wanted to make us walk the plank for the part we played in the capture of Jim Sixty.”

“Pedro said,” went on Ysabel, “that General Pitou doubled the guards all around the camp so that those who came to rescue Coleman would not only fail, but would be captured themselves.”

“The plan must have worked out pretty well,” observed Bob. “Did Pedro tell you whether any of the rescuers had been captured?”

“He came very early this morning,” answered Ysabel, “before the general’s plans had been carried out.”

“Mr. Coleman is with the insurgents?” asked Bob.

“He has been with them for a long time.”

“Is he well treated?”

“As well as he can be. The rebels are half starved, but Mr. Coleman shares their rations with them.”

“Where is he kept?”

“In a tent in the middle of the encampment. He is constantly under guard, but, while I was in the camp, I was able to talk with him. We were the only ones who could speak English, and the soldiers were not able to understand us. I told Mr. Coleman that I was going to run away, and he said it was the best thing I could do. He asked me, before I left, to take a letter from him to the custom officer at Port Livingstone. But he wasn’t able to write the letter before Pedro helped me get away.”

Here was great news, but not wholly satisfactory. The captured consul was alive and well cared for; but he was also well guarded in the heart of the insurgents’ camp.

“That puts me in a blue funk,” muttered Dick. “I wouldn’t give a cent for our chances of doing anything for Coleman. If we get away from here ourselves, we’ll be doing well. And then, too, what’s become of Jordan, Speake, and Tirzal? I hate to make a guess, for it puzzles me.”

Bob was also very much alarmed on account of their missing companions; in some way, however, he hoped through Ysabel Sixty to be able to accomplish something—if not for Coleman, then at least for Jordan and the two with him.

“How did you happen to be so close by, Ysabel,” queried Bob, “when Dick and I were so sorely in need of help?”

“Pedro said that you would probably make a landing in the Purgatoire, which is a branch of the Izaral, and that the general was watching closely the path that led from the branch to the encampment. I heard a number of rifle shots, and that led me to hurry toward the path. I got there just in time to see you. I am sorry for what I was compelled to do in New Orleans, and if I can help you any now, I wish you would let me.”

“You have already been a lot of help to us,” said Bob. “Whether you can help us any more or not remains to be seen. Perhaps, Ysabel, we may be able to help you a little.”

“How?” she returned, leveling her lustrous black eyes upon him.

“You can’t remain here, in this poor camp, indefinitely,” went on Bob. “Pedro is taking a good many chances, I should think, coming here to smuggle food to you. What would happen if General Pitou should catch Pedro? In that case you would be left without any one to look after you.”

“I know that,” answered the girl, drawing a long face, “but anything is better than being compelled to marry the general. I won’t do that!” Again she stamped her foot angrily.

“What are your plans?” asked Bob.

“Pedro is going to try and get a pitpan for me and send me down to Port Livingstone. He says there is a pitpan on the Purgatoire, and that, just as soon as the hour is favorable, he will start me for the town.”

“That pitpan has been stove in and destroyed,” said Bob, “so you can’t count on that. Why not go down the river with us, in the Grampus? Have you friends in Port Livingstone?”

“No,” replied the girl, a flash of pleasure crossing her face at Bob’s suggestion that she go away in the submarine, “but I have good friends in Belize—my mother’s people. They will take care of me. I should have stayed there instead of coming on to Port Livingstone as my father told me.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Bob definitely; “we’re going to take you with us when we go.”

“When are you going?” asked the girl.

“Just as soon as we can find out what has become of the rest of our party and do something to help them.”

“The rest of your party? Who are they?”

Thereupon Bob began to tell the girl about Jordan, Speake, and Tirzal, how they had come ashore to reconnoiter and had not returned. Barely had he finished when a low whistle, like a signal, floated out of the depths of the wood. Bob and Dick jumped and clutched their revolvers.

“It’s Pedro!” whispered the girl. “You have nothing to fear from him, but he mustn’t see you. Hide—over there, behind those bushes—and wait till he goes away.”

Bob and Dick hurried in the direction of the girl’s pointing finger. They had no sooner got safely out of sight than Pedro came running breathlessly into the little clearing.

CHAPTER XI.
ONE CHANCE IN TEN.

Pedro was as ragged as all the rest of the rebels, but he was brown, not black or yellow. He was barefooted and wore on his head a battered straw hat. His only weapon was a machete, fastened about his waist by a piece of rope. He was a man of middle age, and from his manner there was not the least doubt of his loyalty to the daughter of his former captain. He carried a small parcel, knotted up in a dusty handkerchief, and laid it on the ground near the water jar; then, drawing off and keeping close watch of the timber behind him, he began speaking hurriedly in Spanish.

The girl’s face lighted up as she listened. Once in a while she interrupted the torrent of words pouring! from Pedro’s lips to put in a question, then subsided and let the torrent flow on.

For five minutes, perhaps, Pedro talked and gesticulated. At the end of that time he pulled off his tattered hat, extracted a scrap of folded paper from the crown and handed it to the girl. Then, with a quick, low-spoken “Adios!” he vanished into the forest.

As soon as he was safely away, Ysabel turned toward the bushes where the boys had been concealed and clapped her hands.

“Come!” she called; “I have something to tell you.”

Bob and Dick hurried to join her.

“What’s it about?” asked Dick eagerly.

“It’s about your friends, of whom you were telling me when Pedro came. They have been captured——”

“I must say there’s nothing pleasing about that!”

“Didn’t you expect it?” the girl asked. “You knew something must have happened to them when they failed to return to the boat.”

“Yes, we expected it, but I think both of us had a hope that they had merely been pursued into the wood and were working their way back to the Grampus.”

“The men General Pitou had set to watch the path from the Purgatoire were the ones who captured them. Mr. Jordan had time to fire just one shot before they were seized, but that bullet wounded a captain, one of the general’s best men. Pedro says General Pitou is very angry, and that he is going to keep all the prisoners and not release them until the United States government gives up my father.”

“The government will never do that,” said Bob. “Our country is too big to be bullied by a handful of rebels, ’way down here in Central America.”

“Then General Pitou says the prisoners will all be killed.”

There was little doubt in Bob’s mind but that this irresponsible rebel general would be reckless enough to carry out his threat.

“Oh, but we’ve made a mess of this, all right,” growled Dick. “We come down here to rescue Coleman, and, instead of doing that, we leave Jordan, Speake, and Tirzal in the enemy’s hands. A nice run of luck this is!”

Bob was equally cast down.

“Tirzal is to be shot as a spy,” went on Ysabel.

“Poor chap! But what could you expect? I hope the president of this two-by-twice republic will capture every man-jack of the rebels and hang every last one of them! That’s what they’re entitled to, from General Pitou down.”

“Did Pedro have anything to say about us?” inquired Bob.

“That’s where the good part of it comes in,” went on the girl. “The rebels think you’re in the woods, somewhere to the north of the path. All the general’s force, excepting about twenty-five armed men who are guarding the prisoners at the encampment, are hunting through the timber in the hope of catching you. Fingal is helping in the search, and vows he will make you pay dearly for the part you played in the capture of my father.”

“I fail to see anything pleasant in all this, even yet,” continued Dick. “I thought you said that here was where the good part comes in?”

“Can’t you see?” cried the girl. “If all the rebels, outside the encampment, are looking for you in the timber the other side of the path, why, that leaves the way clear to the submarine. We can go there, right off, and get away from General Pitou and his men.”

There was a short silence after this. Bob and Dick were both turning the subject over in their minds. When their eyes sought each other, dogged determination could be read in each glance.

“As you say, Ysabel,” said Bob, “we have an opportunity to get back to the submarine, but we can’t go and leave our friends behind us.”

“You—can’t go?” breathed the girl, staring at Bob as though she scarcely understood his words. “Why can’t you go?” she went on, almost fiercely. “Your friends are captured, and how can you hope to get them away from twenty-five armed men? Don’t be so foolish! Get away while you can—pretty soon it will be too late, and if you are caught you will be shot.”

“What’s in that handkerchief, Ysabel?” queried Dick, pointing to the parcel Pedro had placed on the ground near the water jar.

“Food,” said the girl curtly. “Eat it, if you want to. I’m not hungry.”

She was in a temper because Bob and Dick would not hurry away to the submarine. She could not understand why they should delay their flight when it was manifestly impossible for them to be of any help to their captured friends. As if to further emphasize her displeasure, she turned her back on the boys.

Dick stared at her, and then swerved an amused glance upon his chum.

“Didn’t Pedro give you a note, Ysabel?” asked Bob gently.

“Yes. It was from Coleman. He managed to write it and give it to Pedro for me. It is mine.”

“Suppose you read it? Perhaps there is something in it that is important.”

Ysabel partly turned and threw the note on the ground at Bob’s feet.

“You can read it,” she said.

Bob picked up the scrap and opened it out. It was written in lead pencil, on the back of an old envelope, and read as follows:

“I hope you can get away some time to-day in that pitpan Pedro was telling you about. If you can do that, you can help all the prisoners now in General Pitou’s hands. Some time soon we are to be taken down the Izaral halfway to Port Livingstone, where the rebels have another camp which they consider safer than this one. We will all go in the gasoline launch which was stolen, early this morning, by Fingal and Cassidy. Tell this to the customs officer at Port Livingstone, and ask him to do his best to intercept the launch and help us. I cannot write more—I have not time.”

“That’s nice, I must say!” muttered Dick dejectedly. “If the old cutthroat, Pitou, has his prisoners taken farther back in the jungle, there’ll be no possibility of rescuing them. We’re on the reefs now, for sure.”

Bob turned to Ysabel. Her anger was passing as quickly as it had mounted, and she seemed anxious to meet any question Bob should ask her.

“When Fingal and Cassidy came up the river in the gasoline launch,” said Bob, “did they turn into the Purgatoire branch?”

“No. Pedro said that they went on up the Izaral, and got across to the encampment by another road through the woods.”

“Then, if the prisoners are brought down in the launch they’ll have to pass the mouth of the Purgatoire?”

“Yes.”

“Dick,” said Bob, “there’s a chance that we can do something to that boat load of prisoners.”

“What?” queried Dick, pricking up his ears.

“We can go back to the submarine, drop down the Purgatoire and wait there, submerged, until the gasoline launch comes down.”

“Then what?” asked Dick.

“Then we’ll do whatever we can. There’ll be five of us on the submarine, and I don’t see why we couldn’t accomplish something.”

But Dick shook his head. “You don’t know,” said he, “that Coleman’s information is correct. It’s hardly likely that Pitou would tell the secret to one of his prisoners.”

“Coleman may have found it out in some other way than from General Pitou.”

“Well, the launch may already have dropped down the river.”

“Hardly, I think, when most of the rebels are out looking for us. There’s a chance, Dick.”

“One chance in ten, I should say.”

“That’s better than no chance at all, which seems to be what we have here.”

“We’ve worse than no chance at all, out in this scrub with the rebel army looking for us. If we’re caught, we’ll be done browner than a kippered herring. Although I haven’t much hope, I’m for making a quick slant in the direction of the Grampus.”

“Then you’re going to the submarine?” asked Ysabel joyfully.

“Yes, and we’d better start at once while the coast seems to be clear.”

The girl clapped her hands and started for the timber.

“Do you want this?” asked Dick, lifting the bundle from beside the water jar.

“No, it’s only food—my dinner that Pedro brought me. You have plenty on the submarine, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Bob laughed.

“Then hang that to a tree branch for Pedro. Probably he robbed himself to help me. He’ll come back and get it.”

Dick twisted the knots of the handkerchief into the end of a branch and they all started hurriedly back toward the path.

The difficulties of the way made it necessary for them to travel in single file. Bob went ahead, Ysabel followed him, and Dick brought up the rear.

In ten minutes they were back in the path and hurrying swiftly in the direction of the Purgatoire. But ill luck was still following them, like an evil specter. They had not gone far along the course before a rebel soldier sprang from the timber into the path at Bob’s side.

The surprise was mutual, and, for an instant, Bob and the negro stared at each other. Fortunately the negro had no firearms. He drew his machete, but before he could aim a stroke with it, Bob had leaped forward and struck his arm a fierce blow with the butt of Jordan’s revolver.

A yell of pain fell from the negro’s lips, his arm dropped at his side, and he jumped backward into the woods.

“Quick!” shouted Bob to those behind. “There may be others with him, and we’ll have to make a dash for the Grampus. Run on ahead, Dick, and get the submarine up and close to the bank. I’ll follow you with Ysabel.”

Dick would have demurred at this arrangement, but a chorus of wild yells, issuing from the wood, proved that the negro had spread the alarm.

“The boat will be ready for you,” shouted Dick, as he passed like a streak along the path.

Seizing the girl’s arm, and keeping the revolver in hand, Bob started on as rapidly as the girl could go.

CHAPTER XII.
BY A NARROW MARGIN.

Ysabel made poor work of the flight.

“Go on,” she begged; “don’t try to save me. You can get away if you don’t have to bother to help me along.”

“I’ll not leave you,” answered Bob firmly, taking a quick look over his shoulder. “The soldiers have not yet reached the path, and there’s a good chance for us. Do your best, Ysabel!”

The girl struggled along as well as she could, Bob bounding ahead and dragging her by main force. The shouts behind were growing louder. A rifle was fired and the bullet hissed spitefully through the air above their heads.

“Fingal will kill you if he catches you,” panted the girl.

“I’m not going to let him catch me,” answered Bob.

“He will catch you if you try to take me with you! Leave me, I say. I won’t be hurt. Perhaps, if I turn around and run toward them, I can do something to help save you.”

“You’re wasting your breath,” said Bob finally. “Save it for running.”

Ysabel was a girl who was accustomed, in some things, to having her way. She thought that, if Bob persisted in burdening himself with her, he would surely be captured, and she was anxious to save him at all costs. Thus, in a fashion, she could atone for what she had done in New Orleans.

Suddenly, while Bob was dragging her onward, she threw herself upon the ground.

“I can’t go another step!” she cried breathlessly. “Leave me and save yourself.”

He made no reply, but bent down and picked the girl up in his arms. Then, thus burdened, he staggered on along the path.

The pursuers were coming closer and closer. Two or three shots rang out, so close together that they sounded almost as one. Bob stumbled and nearly fell.

“You’re hurt!” cried the girl, noticing how his left arm dropped at his side, releasing her.

“Nicked, that’s all,” he answered. “The shock of it came near to taking the strength out of me for an instant. I’m all right now, although the arm isn’t much good for the present.”

“I’ll run along beside you,” said the girl, in a strangely subdued tone.

Her ruse to get Bob to leave her had not succeeded. On the contrary, it had cost Bob something. The girl, all contrition, ran at his side and did much better than she had done before.

A turn in the woods put them out of sight of their pursuers and presented a screen against the vicious firearms.

“Just a little farther,” breathed the girl. “The river is close now.”

“We’ll make it,” returned Bob cheerily. His face was a trifle pale, but the same dogged look was in his gray eyes which, more than once, had snatched victory from seeming defeat.

“Does your arm hurt, Bob?” the girl asked.

“It’s feeling better now.”

A little stream of red had run down his hand. The girl stifled a cry as she looked, but he only laughed lightly.

“A scratch, that’s all,” he assured her. “Let’s see how quick we can get around that next turn. When we pass that, we’ll have a straight run to the river.”

They called on every ounce of their reserve strength, and were around the bend before their enemies had had a chance to do any more firing.

Bob was wondering, during that last lap of their run, whether they were to be defeated at the very finish of their plucky flight. They had delayed too long in leaving the girl’s camp. He saw that, plainly enough, and yet he would not have started back to the boat at all unless he had received the news contained in Coleman’s note.

Had Dick reached the river in time to attract the attention of those on the submarine and have the craft brought to the surface, ready and waiting for Bob and the girl? If not, if the slightest thing had gone wrong and caused a delay, then Bob and his companion must surely fall into the hands of Fingal and General Pitou. Yet, harassed though he was by these doubts, Bob’s nerve did not for a moment desert him.

The rebels were behind them, and firing, when he and Ysabel reached the bank of the river. But the soldiers were firing wildly now, and their bullets did not come anywhere near their living targets.

And there, plainly under Bob’s eyes, was the Grampus. She was at the surface, he could hear the throb of her working motor, and Dick was forward, swinging back on the cable and holding her against the bank. Carl was half out of the conning tower, tossing his hands frantically.

“Hurry up! hurry up!” clamored Carl. “Don’d led dose fellers ged you, Bob. Schust a leedle furder und——”

Bob was about to yell for Carl to drop out of the tower and clear the way, but a bullet, fanning the air close to Carl’s head, caused him to disappear suddenly.

“You’ll make it!” yelled Dick, reaching over to help the girl to the rounded steel deck.

“Into the tower hatch with you, Ysabel!” cried Bob. “Help her, Dick,” he added. “There’s no use hanging to the rope now.”

As Bob scrambled to the deck, the impetus of his leap flung the bow of the submarine away from the bank. Dick was already pushing and supporting Ysabel toward the tower hatch.

The bullets were now flying too thickly for comfort, but Bob drew a long breath of relief when he saw the girl disappear behind the protection of the tower.

“In with you, Dick!” shouted Bob, the rain of bullets on the steel deck giving point to his words.

“But you’re hurt, matey,” answered Dick.

“No time to talk!” was Bob’s brief response.

Dick, without delaying matters further, dropped through the top of the tower. The firing suddenly ceased. As Bob mounted the tower and threw his feet over the rim, he saw the reason.

Four of the ragged soldiers had leaped from the bank to the submarine’s deck. More would have come, but the gap of water had grown too wide for them to leap across it. These four, scrambling and stumbling toward Bob, caused their comrades to hold their fire for fear of injuring them.

Just as Bob dropped down the iron ladder, the foremost of the negro soldiers reached the tower. His big hands seized the rim as he made ready to hoist himself upward and follow the fugitives into the interior of the boat.

Bob had yet to close the hatch, and the negro’s hands were in the way. With his clenched fist he struck the black fingers. His work was somewhat hampered from the fact that his left arm was still not to be depended on, so he had to use his right hand entirely.

With a howl of pain the negro pulled away his hands. Thereupon, quick as a flash, Bob reached upward and closed the hatch. Not a moment too soon was this accomplished, for the other three soldiers had reached the tower and were preparing to assist their comrade.

Bob pushed into place the lever holding the hatch shut.

“Fill the ballast tanks!” he shouted. “Pass the word to Clackett, Dick. Lively, now! Ten-foot submersion! We’ve got to clear the decks of these negroes. If they should break one of the lunettes, we’d be in a serious fix.”

Down below him Bob could hear Dick roaring his order to Clackett. With eyes against one of the narrow windows Bob watched the rebel soldiers.

They were beating on the hatch cover with their fists, and kicking against the sides of the tower. On the bank, their comrades were running along to keep abreast of the boat and shouting suggestions.

The Grampus, steered by Dick with the aid of the periscope, had turned her nose downstream in the direction of the Izaral. The hissing of air escaping from the ballast tanks as the water came in was heard by the four ragamuffins on the outside of the steel shell, and they began to feel alarm. This strange craft was more than their primitive minds could comprehend.

Slowly the submarine began to sink. As the water crept up the rounded deck, the negroes lifted their bare feet out of it gingerly and pushed up higher. One of them leaped on the conning-tower hatch.

Then, suddenly, the Grampus dropped below the water. A mud-colored blur closed Bob’s view through the lunette, and as he slid down the ladder into the periscope room, he heard faint yells from the negroes.

Dick, hanging over the periscope table, twirling the steering wheel, was laughing loudly.

“Look, Bob!” he cried. “If you ever saw a lot of scared Sambos, there they are, up there in the Purgatoire!”

Bob stepped to Dick’s side and peered down upon the mirror. Far behind, in the trail of bubbles sent up from the Grampus, the four negroes were swimming like mad toward the shore. Their comrades on the bank were leaning out to help them, and it was evident that they would all be saved.

“We can laugh at the affair now,” said Bob, “yet it was anything but a laughing matter a while ago. Eh, Ysabel?”

“You saved me, Bob Steele,” replied the girl, “and now let us see how badly you are hurt.”

“A bandage will fix that in a little while, Ysabel,” said the other; “just now I’ve got something else to attend to, and the arm can wait.”

Turning back to the periscope, he watched the river bank sliding away behind them, and waited for the moment when they should draw close to the Izaral.

Their work—the work which they had one chance in ten of accomplishing—must be looked after.

CHAPTER XIII.
WAITING FOR SOMETHING.

Ysabel sank down on the top of the locker. Carl had turned on the electric light in the periscope room and was staring at the girl in unconcealed amazement.

“How vas dis?” he asked. “Miss Harris, is it you, sure enough?”

“Not Miss Harris,” answered the girl, with a flush, “but Miss Ysabel Sixty.”

“Oh!” returned Carl, slightly abashed. “Miss Sixdy, dis vas a surbrise. I hat no itee dot you vas in dis part of der vorld. How id vas——”

“Slow down your motor, Gaines!” shouted Bob, through one of the tubes. “Make ready the bow anchor, there, Clackett—you don’t need to bother with the tanks, because we’re going to anchor under the surface. Carl, go below and make ready to let go the stern anchor when I give the word. Sharp on it now!”

Carl jumped for the bulkhead door leading to the afterpart of the ship.

Every one on board, with the exception of Dick and Ysabel, were astounded at these maneuvers of Bob Steele’s. However, Bob was in charge, and all hands obeyed him without question.

With his eyes on the periscope, Bob stood and watched, now and then calling a direction to Dick, at the wheel.

When the Grampus shot from the Purgatoire into the Izaral, she went broadside on against the current of the larger stream. The steel hull heaved over a little, under the mass of flowing water, but the screw and the rudder held her stiffly to her course.

“Now,” shouted Bob into the speaking tube, “let go your anchors!”

The swishing clank of chains, paying out under water, came to the ears of those in the periscope room.

“Anchor’s down!” cried Clackett.

“Der same here!” yelled Carl, his voice ringing from aft.

“Stop the motor, Gaines!” ordered Bob.

The humming of the cylinders ceased, and the Grampus, anchored broadside on across the Izaral, tugged at her mooring chains.

“Where are we, Bob?” came the voice of Gaines through the motor-room tube. “I thought we were making a run to get away from the revolutionists.”

“Hardly, Gaines,” answered Bob. “We don’t want to run away and leave our friends in the hands of the rebels. Come into the periscope room, all of you, and I’ll explain what we are doing and why we are doing it.”

“And while you’re explaining,” said Ysabel quietly but firmly, “I’ll take care of your arm. Where is something I can use for a bandage? And I’d like a sponge and a basin of water.”

“You’ll find a bandage in that locker you’re sitting on, Ysabel,” said Bob.

“I’ll get the water,” said Dick.

By the time Bob had been divested of his coat, and had had his shirt sleeve rolled up, Gaines, Clackett, and Carl were in the periscope room, sitting on the low stools that served for chairs. Dick was back, also, with the basin of water and the sponge, and Ysabel began dressing the wounded arm.

“Great guns, Bob!” exclaimed Gaines. “Are you hurt?”

“A scratch, nothing more,” Bob answered. “The bullet simply left a mark and then went on. I brought you up here, friends,” the young motorist continued, “to tell you where we are. We’re anchored, broadside on the current, in the middle of the Izaral River, our periscope ball some three or four feet above the surface of the water. We are going to stay here and wait for something to happen.”

“What’s to happen?” asked Clackett.

“Well, we’ve got news that a motor launch is coming down the Izaral loaded with prisoners. If possible, we must intercept the launch. Dick says we’ve a chance in ten of winning out, but we can’t neglect even so slim a chance as that, as it happens to be our only one.”

Gaines, Clackett, and Carl were even more deeply puzzled than they had been.

“Who are the prisoners?” inquired Gaines.

“Coleman, for one—the man we came to rescue. Then there are Jordan, Speake, and, I hope, Tirzal.”

“Jordan and those with him were really captured?” demanded Clackett.

“Yes.”

“Ah, vat luck!” wailed Carl. “Ve come afder vone Amerigan consul und lose anodder!”

Bob, carefully watching the periscope as he talked, repeated the experiences that had overtaken him and Dick while they were reconnoitering to find some trace of Jordan’s party.

The presence of Ysabel had aroused much curiosity in all of them, and the explanation as to how she came to be on the boat straightened out that part of the matter to the satisfaction of every one. Carl, in particular, was highly pleased. He had dried himself out, after his fall in the river, and was feeling easy in his mind, now that Bob and Dick, at least, had been kept out of the hands of General Pitou.

“You did a big t’ing, Miss Sixdy,” said Carl, “ven you safed Bob und Dick, und Bob did more ven he safed you, so dot vas efen. Now, if ve don’d make some misdakes in our galgulations und are aple to resgue dot boat loadt of brisoners, eferypody vill be so habby as I can’d dell. Of gourse, I’m not in it, at all. I haf to shday behindt und dake care of der supmarine.”

“Do you feel pretty sure, Bob,” queried Gaines, “that the motor launch with the prisoners will come down the Izaral?”

“All we have to go on, Gaines, is Coleman’s note,” answered Bob. “I may say that this move constitutes our only hope. If something doesn’t happen, about as we expect and hope it will, then we’ll have to give up all thought of doing anything for Coleman, or our friends.”

“We’ll hope something will happen, mate,” said Dick. “In case the launch comes down the river, what are you intending to do?”

“I have my plans, Dick,” said Bob. “If every one carries out his orders on the jump, I feel pretty sure the plan will carry. The main thing is to keep a keen watch for the launch.”

“That’s easy enough during daylight, with the periscope ball elevated as it is,” remarked Gaines, “but if the launch happens to come downstream in the night—which, it strikes me, is altogether likely—then the boat is apt to get past us.”

“Not if a good lookout is kept.”

“How will you keep a good lookout if you don’t go to the surface?”

“Well, what the eye can’t see, the ear will have to tell us. The hollow ball and the hollow periscope mast will bring the chug of the motor boat’s engine into the submarine. The craft ought to be heard a good distance away. One man will have to be at the periscope all the time, and all the rest of you must be at your stations, ready to carry out orders at a second’s notice. You go down to the motor room, Gaines, and Clackett, you go to the tank room. I will stay on the lookout. At midnight, I will have Carl and Dick relieve both of you, but all hands must be on the alert to turn out at a moment’s warning. Carl will get some supper for us, and pass it around.”

Bob, as usual, had made no arrangement whereby he could secure any rest for himself. But he felt that he could not rest, even if he had the chance.

The rescue of Coleman meant much to Captain Nemo, junior, for on the performance of the Grampus might depend the sale of the submarine to the United States government. While the failure to rescue Coleman, and even the loss of Jordan, Speake, and the pilot had nothing to do with the boat’s capabilities, yet failure, nevertheless, would spoil a sale and fill the authorities in Washington with distrust.

The Grampus was not a passenger boat, and she had now a lady passenger to take care of. Bob finally solved the difficulty by having Ysabel conducted to a small steel room abaft the periscope chamber. This was set aside entirely for the girl’s use, and she arranged a fairly comfortable bed on the floor.

After supper had been eaten, Ysabel retired to her cabin, and Carl and Dick nodded drowsily on the locker in the periscope room. Bob, wide awake as a hawk, kept his eyes on the periscope table and his ears attuned for the first sound of the launch’s motor.

Night, however, closed in without bringing any sign of the boat. The gloom, of course, put the periscope out of commission as it deepened, but still Bob watched the table top, looking for possible lights and listening for the clank of machinery.

Dick took Bob’s place for an hour or two, while Bob lay down and tried to sleep. Although he had had only three hours’ sleep in two days, yet the young motorist found it impossible to lose himself in slumber. He was keyed up to too high a pitch, and was too worried.

At midnight he sent Dick and Carl to relieve Gaines and Clackett, and was alone with his vigils in the periscope room.

From midnight on, the night seemed an eternity; and the gloomy hours passed without anything happening. Bob had believed with Gaines that night would be the time the captors would choose for coming down the river with their captives. Inasmuch as they had not come, did this mean that they were not coming at all? that General Pitou had changed his plans?

Desperately Bob clung to his last shred of hope and watched the coming day reflect itself in a gray haze over the top of the periscope table.

Slowly the trees along the river stood out with constantly increasing distinctness, and the bosom of the rolling river took form beneath his eyes. Upstream he could see nothing, but—what was that he heard?

Scarcely breathing, he gripped at the table top and listened intently. A motor boat was coming downstream—his ears had heard it before the periscope had been able to pick it up.

“At your stations, everybody!” he shouted. “Dick! up here in the periscope room with you! The motor launch is coming!”

CHAPTER XIV.
A GREAT PLAY.

Instantly all was commotion on board the submarine, but it was orderly commotion. Clackett jumped to his ballast tanks, Gaines “turned his engine over,” and Carl and Dick hastened into the periscope room.

“Aft with you, Carl,” called Bob, “and stand by to take in the stern anchor. Clackett, forward, and be ready for the bow anchor. Dick,” Bob’s eyes were again on the periscope table, “bring all the loose coils of rope you can find and lay them on the locker.”

Dick had no notion what the ropes were wanted for, but he went for them, and soon had four coils laid along the top of the locker. After that, he passed to the steering wheel, standing shoulder to shoulder beside Bob in front of the periscope table.

There was an atmosphere of expectancy all through the submarine. Every nerve was strained, and each person stood at his post almost with bated breath. Ysabel, without speaking, came into the periscope room and watched Bob with steady eyes.

“There she is!” cried Dick, his eyes on the periscope mirror; “I see her coming!”

Bob also saw the motor launch, breaking into sight against the background of indistinct foliage, far up the stream. The boat was comparatively small, and well loaded. Fingal was in the bow thwarts, with a rifle across his knees; in the stern was Cassidy and a negro soldier, both likewise armed with rifles. Between Fingal and Cassidy and the negro were the prisoners. There were four of them—Jordan, Speake, Tirzal, and a slender, full-bearded man in a battered solar hat. Cassidy was close to the gasoline engine and was evidently looking after it. Fingal, from the bow, was doing the steering.

“They’re all there,” said Bob, in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “Come here, Ysabel.”

The girl stepped obediently to his side. Bob pointed to one of the prisoners reflected in the mirror.

“Is that Coleman?” he asked.

“Yes,” was the answer.

“You’d better go back and sit down, Ysabel,” said Bob. “Pretty soon we’re going to need all the space we have in this vicinity.”

Bob was easy, almost smiling. A great relief had come to him, for the launch was in sight with four captives and three captors, and now it lay with Bob alone whether his friends and Coleman should be released or not.

“Why don’t you do something?” implored Dick, his hands shaking with excitement.

“I’m waiting for the right time,” was the cool answer.

“We’ve only two revolvers,” muttered Dick, “and there are three rifles in that boat. What can we do?”

“Nothing with firearms. We’ve got to make a different play, Dick.”

A moment longer Bob waited, studying the approach of the launch with calculating eyes; then, suddenly, he turned.

“In with the anchors, Clackett, you and Carl,” he called. “See how quick you can get them off the bottom. Start your engine, Gaines,” he added.

The lifting of the anchors caused the Grampus to drift with the current. But only for a moment. Soon the screw took the push and Dick, under orders from Bob, headed the craft upstream and the propeller worked just fast enough to hold her steady.

“Anchor’s stowed!” called Clackett.

“Jump for the tank room, Clackett!” called Bob. “Carl, up here with you.”

As Carl came rolling excitedly into the periscope room, Clackett reported, by tube, that he was back at his usual post.

“Keep the Grampus pointed for the launch, Dick,” said Bob. “Carl, take a coil of rope and climb to the conning-tower hatch. The moment the tower’s awash, open the hatch, get out on the deck and do what you can with the rope.”

Carl was bewildered. What was he to do with the rope? Nevertheless, he obeyed orders.

Bob continued to watch the periscope table and to calculate. Then, again suddenly, he whirled to the tube communicating with the tank chamber.

“Empty the tanks by compressed air, Clackett!” he called. “See how quick you can do it! Everything depends on you!”

The hiss of the air was heard ejecting the water. The submarine began to rise.

“Bring her up under the launch, Dick!” cried Bob. “Make no mistake, old chap! Under the launch, mind!”

A thrill ran through Dick Ferral’s nerves. At last he understood what his friend was about! Had he had time, Dick would have liked to give Bob Steele a hug from sheer admiration.

“When the tanks are empty,” shouted Bob to Clackett, “come up, take a coil of rope and rush for the deck.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” called Clackett.

The periscope revealed a strange situation. The launch was almost upon the periscope ball. Too late those in the motor boat recognized the device. Before the boat could sheer off, the Grampus had risen under her bodily and lifted her clear of the water. The steel hull of the submarine shivered, and wild cries came from those in the motor boat.

Dick grabbed a coil of rope and leaped for the iron ladder.

“Up with the hatch, Carl!” he yelled. “Out on the deck and see how many you can pull out of the river.”

Carl, wrenching back on the lever and throwing up the dripping hatch cover, scrambled out.

“Steer from the tower, Dick,” Bob called, racing up the ladder, “as soon as the hatchway is cleared.”

Clackett followed Bob, and Ysabel Sixty followed Clackett. The thrill of the moment was in the girl’s nerves. She could not have held herself back if she had wanted to. Armed with a coil of rope, she climbed over the rim of the hatch and out on the slippery plates of the deck.

What Bob saw, when he struck the deck, was an overturned launch in the water, and two men clinging to the bow of the Grampus. One of these was Cassidy and the other was Tirzal. The former was clinging to the flagstaff, and the other to one of the wire cable guys. By an accident, they had held to the curved deck instead of slipping back into the water.

Dick, from the tower, was able to direct the boat so as to facilitate the picking up of those in the river.

Carl tossed a rope to Speake, Bob got one to Coleman, and Clackett succeeded in getting a line in the hands of Jordan. Ysabel tossed one end of her rope to Fingal, but he flung it aside with an oath. The negro soldier reached for it, but Fingal struck his hand fiercely aside, seized the soldier by the neck and began swimming with him toward the river bank.

While the rescued prisoners were being hauled aboard, Bob watched Fingal and the negro. The current was swift, but both men were strong swimmers. To Bob’s satisfaction he saw the two gain the bank and get safely upon dry ground. Fingal’s move was characteristic of him, for, as soon as he could lift himself, he shook his clenched fist at the submarine and those on her deck. If he had had a rifle, undoubtedly he would have done some shooting.

“Bob Steele!” cried Jordan. He was sitting on the deck, his back against the side of the conning tower, shaking the water out of his ears.

“Well?” asked Bob.

“Did you come up under that launch by accident, or did you do it purposely?”

“I had that all figured out, Jordan,” laughed Bob.

“It was the greatest play I ever heard of!”

“It was the only one we could make that would stand any show of winning. When you and Speake and Tirzal left the Grampus, you took all the rifles. We were left with only a brace of six-shooters. Of course I knew better than to try to get the best of Fingal, Cassidy, and the soldier with two popguns when they were armed with rifles.”

“Of course you did!” chuckled Jordan. “I’m as wet as a drowned rat, but I’m happy—oh, yes, happier than I ever thought I should be, a few minutes ago. By the way, Bob, that gentleman with the dripping whiskers is Jeremiah Coleman, the fellow we came to rescue, and just missed leaving a few more prisoners to keep him company. Jerry, shake hands with Bob Steele. He was complimented in those messages from New Orleans, and I must say that he fills the bill.”

“Glad to meet you, Bob Steele,” said Coleman, as he leaned to take Bob’s hand. “You’ve done a fine thing for all of us, and it’s something that won’t be forgotten in a hurry.”

“Cassidy and Tirzal seem to have come aboard without gettin’ wet,” remarked Clackett, with a glance of contempt in the direction of the mate. Cassidy sat on the deck with his head bowed, as abject a figure as Bob ever saw.

“Which way now, Bob?” asked Dick.

“Belize,” replied Bob. “Go down the ladder and let Tirzal take the wheel until we all get below; after that, Tirzal can steer from the tower. Go below, gentlemen, with Dick. You’ll feel more comfortable after you dry your clothes, and then we can have a talk. There are a lot of things I’ve got to find out.”

Ysabel led the descent into the periscope room; Coleman followed her, then Tirzal, then Speake, and then Jordan. Clackett and Carl brought up the rear of the procession, both, with their eyes, telling the melancholy Cassidy what they thought of him as they dropped down the tower hatch.

“Better go below, Cassidy,” said Bob calmly.

For answer, the mate jerked a revolver from a belt at his waist and lifted the muzzle to his breast.

In a twinkling, Bob had hurled himself across the slippery deck and knocked the weapon out of Cassidy’s hand.

“You’re less of a man than I thought you, Cassidy,” cried Bob contemptuously, “to think of such a thing as that!”

CHAPTER XV.
ON THE WAY.

“What have I got left to live for?” growled Cassidy, looking up into Bob’s face. “I turned against the best friend I ever had just because he had sense enough to put a better head than mine in charge of the Grampus.”

“You took to drinking,” said Bob. “That, I think, was at the bottom of what you did. But I don’t harbor any grudge, and I don’t believe Captain Nemo, junior, will, either.”

“He’ll never overlook this,” muttered Cassidy, shaking his head. “An’ it was him that pulled me out of the gutter, up there in Philadelphia, set me on my feet, and done everything possible to make a man o’ me. I ain’t fit to live!”

“When a man’s not fit to live,” said Bob, tempted to be out of patience, “he certainly is not fit to die. Look this thing square in the face, Cassidy, and live it down.”

“But you don’t know all I done.”

“I guess I do, pretty near.”

“No, you don’t. I began plannin’ to do some underhand work, the minute I heard what the cap’n was going to do for you. Whenever I git a drink in me, I’m ripe for anything. That’s why I sampled that brandy I was bringing to the cap’n. I wanted to nerve myself up for what I was plannin’ to do. I listened to you when you was reading the sealed orders. I heard it all, and I knew I had something then that was valuable. As soon as you and Ferral left the Grampus, I got away, too. As I stepped out o’ the sailboat at the landing, this Cap’n Fingal spoke me. We went into a drinkin’ place by the wharf and we spilled a lot of rum down our throats. That was enough to set us both going. I told Fingal what I knowed, and he told me a lot about himself. He said he’d make it right with me if I could get you disabled so you couldn’t manage the Grampus, and would have to be left behind. That, as Fingal and I both figgered, would put me in command. It was to handle you rough, and land you in a hospital, that we trailed you to the consulate. When we failed there, we come back to the landing, and Fingal says for me to jump aboard his schooner with him and then lay for the Grampus up the Izaral. I told Fingal I thought it was the Rio Dolce, but he laughed and said if you’d read it that way you was stringing me.

“I was about ready to quit on the business, after what happened at the consulate, but Fingal got more rum down me, talked about how I’d been imposed on, and told what a fine thing it would be if we could make you fail in the work you had come down here to do.

“That kind of pleased me, too. If I could have fixed it so you’d fall down on the job the cap’n had laid out for you, then, I thought, the cap’n would think he had made a mistake in not putting me up as boss of the submarine. Funny how a feller’s idees will git squeegeed that away as soon as he gets a little grog under hatches.

“Well, anyway, I went with Fingal. We left the schooner at Port Livingstone, and Fingal told the mate of the schooner to go down to Barrios and stay there till Fingal joined him. Then we stole the motor boat and hustled up the river to that outfit of ragamuffins that’s hopin’ to grab the country and turn it over to another dictator. I was disgusted with the lot of ’em, and with old Pitou more’n any of the rest. I wouldn’t go near Coleman, and when our information worked out, and Jordan and the half-breed was captured, I felt sore enough at myself; but it was Speake that cut me up the worst. Him and me had always been friendly on the Grampus, and there I was, after betraying him into the hands of his enemies. Oh, I tell you, Bob, I felt bad enough to go down to the river and jump in. Then, when old Pitou made up his mind to send the prisoners down the river in the launch to another of his hangouts where he thought they’d be safer, and app’inted me as one of the guards to go with ’em and see that none of ’em got away, I felt about as respectable as a horse thief. Of course, when you bumped us on the bottom with the submarine, I couldn’t sink into the river and never come up; oh, no, I just naturally had to land right on the deck, without so much as getting my feet wet. I don’t know how I ever can go back to Belize and look the cap’n in the face. That’s honest.”

Cassidy’s regret for what he had done was so profound that it made a deep impression on Bob.

“You’re not a bad fellow at heart, Cassidy,” said he. “Captain Nemo, junior, knows that, as well as all the rest of us. Besides, it was a little bit rough to jump a fellow like me over the head of an old hand like you, and——”

“It wasn’t!” growled Cassidy; “not a bit of it!” He lifted his fierce eyes. “Think I’ve got the head to do what you done? No, not in a thousand years! The cap’n knowed what he was about, and I didn’t have sense enough to see it.”

“Well, you buck up and go to the captain. You didn’t cause any great harm, anyhow, the way things have come out. The captain will be so pleased over what’s been accomplished that he’ll overlook a good deal. I’ll say a good word for you, Cassidy.”

“You will?” demanded the mate incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s a heap more’n I deserve.”

“You’ll be the mate to help us back to Belize. I’m in charge until we get there, and I order you to go below and go on duty.”

“Orders is orders, I reckon.” Cassidy hoisted himself up and followed Bob to the tower hatch and down into the periscope room. The room was fairly crowded, and a roar of delight went up at the sight of Bob. It died away suddenly as Cassidy showed himself. A glitter came into Speake’s eyes as he regarded the mate.

“Better lock Cassidy up somewhere, Bob,” suggested Jordan.

“Yes,” grunted Speake venomously, “or tie his hands and feet an’ throw him overboard.”

“You’re wrong in your drift, friends,” said Bob quietly. “Cassidy is a good fellow at heart, and Fingal twisted him around his fingers. I haven’t any fault to find with Cassidy, and he’s going back to Belize as mate of the Grampus.”

“Well, that’s playing it kind of rough on some of the honest men that stood by the ship!” protested Dick.

“Vat a foolishness, Bob!” exploded Carl. “Dot feller come pooty near being der finish of you.”

“Better think that over a little, Bob,” suggested Jordan.

“Him planty bad man,” said Tirzal, climbing up into the tower in order to do his steering from the lookout.

“If he stays, mate, I resign!” snapped Speake.

“No, you don’t, Speake!” answered Bob. “I’m master of this boat until we get back to Belize. Cassidy’s mate, and you’re in the torpedo room.”

“You see how it is, Bob,” muttered Cassidy.

“It’s as I want it, Cassidy,” said Bob firmly, “as far as Belize.”

“But, look here,” began Speake, disposed to argue the point, “here’s a man, holdin’ the responsible position of mate, as goes——”

“Forget that for a while, Speake,” interrupted Bob, “and remember the number of times Cassidy’s pluck and friendship have been a help to all of us. Put all the fine things Cassidy has done into one side of the scale, and this one black mark in the other, and there’s still more than enough left to entitle him to our confidence.”

“I’m obliged to you, Steele,” said Cassidy. “I’ll go on as mate as far as Belize, and then the cap’n can settle the matter as he thinks right. Just now, though, I’m tired and I guess I’ll go to the torpedo room and take a rest.”

“All right,” said Bob. “You go to the torpedo room, too, Speake.”

Speake hesitated, then followed Cassidy out of the room.

“You’re a queer jigger, Bob Steele,” remarked Jordan.

“But he’s right, all the same,” said Coleman.

“Oh, yes, Jerry,” Jordan interposed, grinning, “you stick in your oar! You’re sort o’ chesty for a chap who’s been stowed away in the jungle with revolutionists for a couple of weeks or more, eating mule meat, and making all kinds of trouble for the state department of your native country! How’d you get run away with, in the first place?”

“That was too easy, Hays,” laughed Coleman. “I came across from the Pacific to Port Livingstone, and while I was there, the revolutionists gobbled me.”

“I believe you said they’d treated you well?”

“The best they could. I played poker with Pitou, and I learned, before I had been two days in the rebel camp, that it wasn’t safe to beat the general. As long as I allowed him to beat me, I was treated to the best he had. Whenever I beat him, my rations—even the mule meat—were cut down.”

Coleman turned to Ysabel, who had been sitting quietly by.

“I’m mighty glad, little girl,” said he, “that you are able to get clear of Pitou and Fingal.”

“So am I, Mr. Coleman,” answered Ysabel. “If it hadn’t been for Bob Steele I’d be still in the camp.”

“Bob Steele again!” laughed Coleman.

“Always Bob Steele!” chimed in Jordan, with a quizzical look at the youth.

“He iss der feller vat does t’ings, you bet,” declared Carl.

“Let’s hear about what happened while Speake, Tirzal, and I were away from the boat,” suggested Jordan.

“Not now,” answered Bob. “I’m hungry, whether the rest of you are or not. Speake,” he called through the tube leading to the torpedo room, “see if you can get something in the way of breakfast.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” answered Speake heartily.

For some time the Grampus had been heaving and tossing in a way that made it difficult for those in the periscope room to keep their seats. Bob took a look into the periscope.

“Ah!” said he; “we’re out of the river and heading for Belize.”

“And glad I’ll be to get back there,” remarked Jordan, with satisfaction. “You’ve made me a lot of trouble, Coleman.”

“I seem to have made a lot of you a good deal of trouble,” returned Coleman, “and I’m mighty glad I’ve ceased to figure as an international issue.”

“We all are, for that matter,” said Jordan.

CHAPTER XVI.
A DASH OF TABASCO.

In due course the delayed breakfast came up from the torpedo room. By some error, Speake had mixed an overdose of tabasco sauce with the canned beans which he had warmed up on his electric stove.

“Glory!” sputtered Jordan, reaching for water. “Speake must have mixed a Whitehead torpedo in that mess of beans.”

“Only a dash of tabasco,” replied Coleman. “Haven’t you been in Central America long enough to like hot stuff?”

“Not long enough, anyhow, to acquire an asbestos stomach. Talking about a dash of tabasco, though, Bob Steele’s raid on the rebels must have been something of that variety. Reel it off, Bob. We’re all good listeners.”

“You do it, Dick,” said Bob. “You were with me and did as much of the work as I did.”

“No, sir!” remonstrated Dick. “I didn’t take care of Ysabel during that run for the river, did I. And I didn’t get that piece of lead through my arm, either.”

Thereupon Dick waded into past events as he and Bob had experienced them. He slighted his own deeds to give a greater luster to Bob’s, and finally Bob, in self-defense, had to take the telling into his own hands and finish it.

“Well,” exclaimed Jordan, “there’s enough tabasco in that run of work to satisfy almost anybody. But, if Bob Steele hadn’t come up under that launch as he did, all of us prisoners, my dear friends, would now be tramping through the jungle toward Pitou’s new camp.”

“I’m glad that note of mine proved so valuable to us,” spoke up Coleman.

“How did you come to lay all that information aboard, Mr. Coleman?” inquired Dick. “It seemed main queer that a prisoner could have got wise to all that.”

“Pitou told me,” said Coleman, with a twinkle in his eye, “over a poker game. He indulged in liquid refreshment, as I remember, and the more he beat me, and the more he indulged, the more confidential he became. I knew Pedro was a friend of Ysabel’s, and that he was helping her to leave the camp, so I managed to write down what I had heard, hoping that Ysabel might get to Port Livingstone and give the news to somebody there who could and would help us.”

“You haven’t told us, Mr. Jordan,” said Bob, “what happened to your landing party.”

“I hesitate to put it into cold words,” answered Jordan, “after listening to a recital which shows that you are a general in that sort of affair, Bob, while I am only a private. By rights, my lad, you are the one who should have gone with that landing party. However, since it appears necessary to have our experiences in order to make the testimony complete, here goes.

“By accident we struck a path. Tirzal said he knew about the path, but I think the good-natured rascal was talking for effect, and that he had never seen it before. I was fairly sure in my own mind, mainly because we had seen nothing of Fingal’s schooner after leaving Belize nor of a small boat after leaving Port Livingstone, that Fingal and Cassidy hadn’t reached the revolutionists and told what they knew. I suspect that that’s what made me careless, for I was that when you consider that we were out on a reconnoitering expedition and ought to have been looking for traps as well as for revolutionists.

“Well, the trap was sprung at a turn in the path. I wasn’t able to see around the turn, and a bunch of colored persons in ragged clothes were on us before you could say Jack Robinson. This happened quite a little while after we got away from the boat. As I recollect, we had reconnoitered, and had been led away from the path on some wild-goose chase or other by Tirzal half a dozen times. I was just thinking about returning to the boat when we pushed around that turn.

“I had time to shoot, and it so happened that I wounded a colored person who was a favorite captain of the general’s. It wasn’t a serious wound, but the general was pretty badly worked up over it, and I didn’t know but they would stand me against a tree and shoot me out of hand before I could make the general understand I was in the consular service. At the right moment, Fingal came up, and he recognized me. The general was tickled, and felt sure he had enough consular representatives of the United States in his hands to insure the giving up of Jim Sixty. Nice business, eh, Coleman,” and Jordan turned aside to his friend, “when it takes two fellows like you and me to make an even exchange for a fellow like that filibuster?”

“Well,” answered Coleman, “Sixty is worth more to the rebels than we are. It’s what a thing’s worth to somebody else, and not what you think it’s worth to you, that counts.”

“The point’s too fine and gets away from me,” went on Jordan. “That’s about all of it, Bob. Poor Tirzal was recognized as a spy, and he would have been shot quick enough if I hadn’t threatened the general with all sorts of things if he carried out his intentions. Out of consideration for me, Pitou agreed to wait until we got to the new camp before shooting Tirzal. That’s the only thing, Bob, that saved the half-breed’s life.”

Bob was beginning to feel the effects of his long period of active duty without sufficient sleep, and he called Cassidy from the torpedo room, left him in charge of the Grampus, and then lay down on the locker and was soon slumbering soundly.

When he was awakened it was by Jordan. It was getting along toward evening, and the Grampus was anchored in her old berth off Belize. A sailboat was alongside to take the passengers ashore.

Jordan, Coleman, Tirzal, Cassidy, and Bob were to go, and, of course, Ysabel. Dick was left to look after the submarine.

Ysabel left Bob and the rest at the landing.

“Shall I see you again, Bob,” she asked, “you and the rest of the boys?”

“I hope so, Ysabel,” answered the youth, “but I also hope we won’t have such rough times when our trails cross again.”

“Have I helped you enough to offset what I did in New Orleans?”

“Don’t mention that—forget about it. The account is more than square.”

“Good-by, then,” she called, in a stifled voice, and hurried off along the street.

Jordan and Coleman went on to the house where the captain had been taken, accompanying Bob and Cassidy. The mate was going to present himself frankly before the captain, acknowledge his fault, and then abide by the full consequences. But fate decreed that the matter should turn out otherwise.

The captain, as it chanced, was very much worse and was unable to recognize any one. The doctor averred that the case was not serious, and that, with good nursing, Captain Nemo, junior, would pull through all right.

“If he wants a nurse, doctor,” said Cassidy, “then it’s up to me. I took care of him in New Orleans, the time he was sick there, and I guess I can do it now better than any one else.”

“Then pull off your coat,” said the doctor, “and go up to his room.”

All this was as it should be. For the present, the Grampus was still under Bob’s care, and he started back toward the wharf to secure a sailboat and return to the submarine.

Jordan and Coleman accompanied him part way, then left him to telegraph their report of recent events to Washington.

“We’re going to handle you and the Grampus without gloves in that report,” declared Jordan, with a wink.

“Just so you please the government and make the navy department take the submarine off the captain’s hands,” returned Bob, “that’s all I care.”

CHAPTER XVII.
A SERIOUS SERENADE.

While Jordan was preparing his telegraphic report, Bob and his chums started in quest of lodgings in the town. They finally found rooms in a small hotel, dignified by the name of International, and there they established their temporary headquarters and rested for several days.

One evening, however, Carl, who sometimes was inclined to be sentimental and romantic, borrowed a guitar from a Spanish waiter at the hotel, and went out to serenade Ysabel Sixty, in true Spanish fashion.

He managed to escape, unnoticed by either Bob or Dick, and without confiding his purpose to them; so, well pleased with himself, he strolled on through the quiet streets.

It was a rare evening in old Belize. The moon was like a big yellow topaz pinned to a cushion of blue-black velvet, and around it lay the stars like scattered diamonds. Carl could not see the moon or stars very distinctly, for it was so beastly hot that the perspiration trickled into his eyes and half blinded him.

The zephyrs, laden with spicy fragrance from orange groves and pineapple fields, breathed softly through the palms; but Carl could not enjoy the zephyrs, for a cloud of mosquitoes was pestering him.

The house before which Carl paused was a whitewashed bungalow. Between the bungalow and the street ran a high brick wall. The iron gate leading into the yard was locked, and Carl climbed the wall.

Carl was not very well acquainted with the lay of the land in Belize. By an error of judgment he had got into the wrong yard, and by another conspiracy of circumstances he began pouring out his enraptured soul under the window of a room in which Captain Reginald Pierce, of the local constabulary, was trying to sleep. Miss Sixty was staying with relatives a block farther on, around the corner of the next street.

Utterly unaware of his mistake, Carl fought the discomforts of his situation and heroically burst into song.

Carl knew how to play the guitar, for he had once been a member of a knockabout musical team, and he could get music out of anything from a set of sleigh bells to a steam calliope. If he had been able to use his voice as well as he used the guitar, Captain Reginald Pierce would probably have slept on or even have been lulled into deeper slumber; but there were flaws in Carl’s youthful baritone.

Captain Reginald Pierce stirred uneasily, sat up suddenly in his bed, and knocked his high forehead against the iron bar that supported a canopy of mosquito netting. As he rubbed his temples and said things to himself, he listened with growing anger, and began forming a plan of campaign. There was a pitcher of water on a table in his room, a bulldog in the yard, and a valiant assistant in the form of Hadji Sing, his Hindu servant. Getting softly out of bed, the captain prepared for his attack on the enemy.

When Carl climbed over the wall he had dropped into the yard at the foot of a lemon tree. He had jarred the tree and a half-ripe lemon had dropped on him. This omen should have sent him away and postponed the serenade, but it did not.

After slapping at the mosquitoes and drawing his sleeve across his eyes, Carl went on picking the guitar, and singing manfully.

Just then the water descended. It was well aimed and Carl caught the whole of it. Probably there was no more than a couple of gallons, but Carl, for the moment, was under the impression that it was a tidal wave.

His song died out in a wheezy gurgle, and, for a moment, he was stunned. Then, suddenly, he realized that he had been insulted. Ysabel Sixty, the beautiful maiden who had captured his young fancy, had deliberately thrown—— But his thoughts were interrupted by a voice from the window, a voice that certainly was not Miss Sixty’s.

“By Jove! I’ll throw the pitcher at you, fellow, if you don’t clear out!”

Carl was dazed. He knew, then, that he had made a mistake. While he stood there, half drowned and trying to find his voice, the bark of an approaching dog came from the rear of the house.

Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and instantly it flashed over Carl that if he wanted to save himself he would have to run. Without standing on the order of his going, he whirled and fled toward the fence. The dog was close and rapidly drawing closer. Behind the dog came a white-turbaned figure that was urging the brute onward with strange language.

The front fence looked altogether too high for Carl, and he turned and made for a wall at the side of the yard. Just as he gained the foot of the barrier the dog was snapping at his heels.

“Dere!” he whooped, turning and smashing the guitar over the dog’s head; “how you like dot, hey?”

The dog was rebuffed, but not discouraged. Carl had gained a few valuable seconds, and he grabbed at a vine that covered the wall and climbed frantically upward. He heard a growl below him as he ascended, and felt a shock as the savage teeth closed in his trousers. The dog was heavy, his jaws were as strong as a steel trap, and as Carl hung wildly to the vine he knew that something would have to give way or else that he would be captured. It was with a feeling of joy, therefore, that he heard a tearing sound and experienced a sudden relief from his enforced burden. The next moment he was over the wall and floundering about in a thorny rosebush covered with beautiful blossoms. But the beautiful blossoms did not make so deep an impression on Carl as did the thorns.

As he rolled out of the bushes his language was intense and earnest; and when he got up in a cleared stretch of ground he felt a sudden coolness below the waist line that informed him fully of his predicament. He had left an important part of his apparel in the next yard.

“Vat luck!” he muttered. “Vat a laff Bob und Dick vill gif me! Vell, I can’t go pack py der hotel like dis! Vat shall I do?”

He paused to shake his fist in the direction of the yard he had just left. All was silent on the other side, and the man and the dog, Carl reasoned, must have gone back where they belonged.

A survey of the situation in the moonlight showed Carl another bungalow. It was not so pretentious as the house in the next inclosure, but its walls were as brightly whitewashed and the building stood out clearly against its background of shrubbery. The windows of the house were dark. But this was to be expected, as the hour was past midnight. The noise which Carl had made had not seemed to disturb the inmates.

“If I had der nerf,” thought Carl, “I vould go dere und ask der beople for somet’ing to fix my pants. But meppy I vouldt get soaked mit some more vater, und meppy dere is anodder tog. No, I vill go pack py der hodel und led Bob und Dick laff as mooch as dey vill.”

But luck was still against Carl; or, perhaps, in the inscrutable way whereby fate occasionally works in order to secure the greatest good for the greatest number, he was merely encountering obstacles in order to gain knowledge of a plot that had been leveled against Bob Steele.

Carl found a tall iron gate, set into the high front wall as snugly as a door in its casing. But the gate was locked. More than that, the wall could not be scaled, for there were no vines or near-by trees to offer a lift upward.

Carefully he made his way around all four sides of the inclosure, only to be balked at every point. Then he hunted for a ladder, a box, or some other movable thing on which he could stand while getting over the wall, but his search was fruitless.

“Vell,” he muttered, again moving toward the house, “I vill haf to shpeak mit somepody in der place und dry und ged oudt. I don’d vant to shday here undil morning.”

At the rear of the house he rapped. Although he pounded heavily, no one answered his summons. Alarmed by the thought that there was no one at home, he moved around to the front door and rapped again, still without effect. Next he tried the door. To his amazement he found it unlocked, and, when the door swung open, a blank darkness yawned beyond it.

“Hello, somepody!” Carl called, thrusting his head inside. “I’m not a t’ief, or anyt’ing like dot, but I’m in drouple. Hello! Come und led me oudt of der yardt, blease, if you vill be so kindt.”

His voice echoed rumblingly through the interior of the house, but won no response. Hesitatingly, Carl stepped across the threshold. He had matches in his pocket, and they had come through the recent deluge unharmed. With fingers none too steady he scratched one, held the flickering glow above him and peered around.

The next moment his startled eyes encountered an object on the floor that caused him to drop the match from his nerveless fingers and fall back gaspingly against the wall.

CHAPTER XVIII.
DON RAMON ORTEGA.

The object which had so startled the Dutch boy was the figure of a middle-aged man, sprawled at full length on the floor matting. His hands were secured behind him and his feet were bound at the ankles with twisted towels. Over the lower part of his face another towel had been tied, thus effectually preventing outcry.

Carl’s own troubles faded into the background. As he slowly got the whip hand of himself, he struck another match and stepped to the man’s side. The man gurgled incoherently behind the gag and his dark eyes pleaded for immediate release.

“Dere is some tricky bizness here, I guess!” exclaimed Carl. “Don’d be schared of me,” he added to the man, “I’m a friendt, und I vill help you. Schust vait a leedle undil I ged a bedder lighdt.”

There was an oil lamp on a table, and Carl stepped to it and applied a match to the wick. In the glow that presently flooded the room, the Dutch boy returned to the man, knelt down beside him, and removed the towels.

The man, attempting to rise, fell helplessly back again.

“Vas you hurt?” asked Carl solicitously.

“Hurt?” echoed the man, speaking good English, although with a very perceptible foreign accent. “Not at all, señor; only my limbs—they are so cramped from confinement that I cannot stand. Soon they will be all right. But who are you?” Suspicion suddenly flamed in his dark eyes. “How does it happen that you know of my trouble and have come here? Are you a confederate of the rascally Don Carlos?”

“Don Garlos?” repeated Carl. “I don’d know dot feller from Adam. I vas a shdranger in dis blace, und all I know is der Amerigan consul, Misder Hays Chordan, und Doctor Armsdrong, und——”

“You are American?” interrupted the other eagerly. “How do you happen to be here?”

“Id vas a blunder, dot’s all,” answered Carl. “A pulltog chased me und pooty near caught me, too. I got ofer der vall from der odder side und couldn’t get back some more. Vat a high vall is aboudt der place! Und so smoot’ und shlippery as I can’t dell.”

“What were you doing in the other yard?”

Carl did not want to mention that part of it, but it seemed necessary in order to convince the man of his harmless intentions.

“Vell,” he answered diffidently, “I vent der mit meinself to serenate a young laty py der name of Miss Sixdy——”

“Miss Ysabel Sixty?” the other again interrupted, even more eagerly than he had done before.

“Yah, so!” beamed Carl. “You know her?”

“Indeed, yes. But she does not live in the next house, señor. An English captain lives there—-an officer in charge of the constabulary. Miss Sixty is staying with friends a block farther down the street, and around the corner.”

“Vell, I t’ought I had made some misdakes,” said Carl, vastly relieved. “Blease, haf you some patches and some neetles and t’read? I vouldt like to be respectable vonce more.”

The man got to his feet slowly, and then, his eyes gleaming ominously, caught Carl’s arm in both hands.

“Let us not think so much of ourselves now, señor,” he said thickly, “but of others.”

Carl began to wonder whether the released gentleman was crazy or excited.

“I am Don Ramon Ortega,” explained the man.

This was another surprise. Carl had heard of Don Ramon Ortega. He was the Spanish consul in Belize, a man of high lineage and of much importance.

“How keveer dot I shouldt come py your house like dis!” muttered Carl. “I hope,” he added, in a tremor, “dot der laties von’t come——”

“There are none here but ourselves,” cut in the don. “My family and all the servants have gone to Mexico. I myself was intending to go in the morning, but now I shall not leave Belize until I make that scoundrelly Don Carlos Valdez answer for this rascally work he has done!”

“Don Carlos Valdez?” repeated Carl. “I don’t know der feller. Vat has he done?”

“I will tell you,” answered the don. “Come, let us sit down for a moment. My limbs are not strong yet, and there is much to be done.”

Carl, excited and curious, dropped into a chair. The don, after giving a cautious look outside, closed the door and returned to Carl. Drawing a chair close, he seated himself.

“Tell me,” said he, “do you know of a submarine boat in the harbor called the Grampus? You are American, and the boat is owned by Captain Nemo, junior, an American. You should know of her.”

“Vell, you bed you! Vy, I’m vone of der crew of der Grampus! I come mit her ven she arrifed, und I vas mit her ven she got der American consul avay from der repels in der River Izaral. Vy, Bob Steele, who vas boss of der boat, is my friendt, my pard! Und so is Dick Ferral! Know der Grampus! I know her insite und oudt, oop und down und sitevays! My name is Pretzel, Carl Pretzel.”

Don Ramon Ortega was astounded, but happily so. Reaching out his hand, he clasped Carl’s convulsively.

“Ah, what good fortune!” he murmured; “what amazing luck! Destiny is at work in all this. Fate guided you to me to-night, my young friend!”

“A pulltog hat more to do mit it as fate,” answered Carl simply.

“Listen!” proceeded the don hurriedly. “I was here alone in the early evening. Some one rang the bell at the gate. I went out and admitted”—anger throbbed in the Spaniards voice—“Don Carlos Valdez! He is what you Americans call a trouble maker. I call him a pestilence, an evil specter who stalks through the devoted countries and helps revolutionists overthrow established governments. I am Spanish, but I love law and order! I hate violence and bloodshed! I am for peace! But Don Carlos is always for war, and more war, for in that he finds unholy profit. Well, it was he who called on me to-night. He declared that he wanted a passport, for he was going abroad. I told him to go to my secretary, at the legation. He said he had been there, but that the secretary was not in. I could not refuse him the passport if his intentions were peaceable and he paid the fee, so he came back into the house with me. As I seated myself and leaned over the table, the demon struck me from behind. I fell unconscious. When I recovered, I was bound as you saw me, and I have lain so for hours. But Don Carlos had not left when I regained consciousness. He and I have long been at swords’ points, and he taunted me with the base plans he intended to carry out.”

Don Ramon writhed in his chair in a spasm of fierce anger.

“Vat vas he going to do?” asked Carl.

“He has designs on the submarine!” proceeded the don. “He thinks the boat would be valuable to the revolutionists to the south of us. They are threatening Port Livingston, at the mouth of the Izaral, and are seeking to secure the fort there. The lawful authorities of the state will send ships of war to defeat the revolutionists, and Don Carlos wants the submarine to destroy the war vessels.”

Carl gasped, then he added soothingly, “Don’d you be exzited. Der schemer von’t get der supmarine. Captain Nemo, junior, is sick, but Bob Steele is on der job, und you bed you he von’t let Don Carlos haf der Grampus to help oudt der repels.”

“No! Bob Steele will not hire the boat to the rascally Don Carlos, who is a serpent for craft. He intends to get the boat away from Belize by a ruse—and will use my name, my honorable name, to help him prosecute his villainous plot! Think of that!”

“How vill he do it?”

“I do not know, but such is his miserable intention; he flaunted it in my face as I lay on the floor at his feet, helpless to move or to speak. We must prevent him from carrying out his contemptible designs. I have told you so much, because it was necessary that you should understand. Come! Let us go at once to Bob Steele! Let us warn him, and put him on his guard.”

“Good!” agreed Carl heartily. “But haf you a pair of drousers vat I couldt vear?”

“That is a small matter, Señor Pretzel,” demurred the don on his way to the door. “We have other and larger matters to claim our instant attention.”

“Some more drousers is kevite imbortant mit me,” insisted Carl.

Rather than waste time arguing, Don Ramon flung off into a neighboring room. He returned presently with a pair of white duck trousers, and Carl climbed into them. They were too long and too narrow, but the Dutch boy contrived to make them serve.

“Now,” said Carl, “get der key of der front gate und lead der vay.”

The don took a key from the drawer of the table.

“Come,” said he, hurrying from the door.

“Id’s a funny bizness,” remarked Carl, following, “dot dis Carlos feller vouldt leaf der door oben und lock der gate.”

“The gate locks itself when it is closed,” explained the don.

“I don’d t’ink, anyvay, dere is mooch use vorryin’ aboudt der boat,” proceeded Carl, as the don unlocked the gate. “Dot Carlos feller vill haf his hants full pulling der vool ofer Bob Steele’s eyes.”

“You do not know Carlos as well as I,” answered Don Ramon ominously. “He is plausible, he has many tricks, and then he is impersonating me! Bob Steele must know me by name, although I have not the pleasure of his personal acquaintance. I am fearing the worst, ah, yes, the worst!”

The gate clanged behind them and the don and Carl raced for the International Hotel. Carl had not seen either of his chums at supper, and he had not spent much time looking for them. The serenade had been uppermost in Carl’s mind, and he had been afraid Bob or Dick might propose something that would interfere with his plans.

In the hotel office they learned that Bob and Dick had gone out to the submarine early in the evening to arrange some stores that had been taken aboard. They had not come back, so the inference was that they were staying the night on the craft.

There was nothing left for the don and Carl to do but to hurry on to the wharf. There, at the landing from which sailboats usually carried the Grampus’ crew to the anchorage, half a mile out in the bay, they met a policeman.

“What are you looking for, Don Ramon?” inquired the officer respectfully, touching the don on the shoulder as he and Carl were gazing off across the surface of the bay.

“For the riding lights of the submarine boat,” answered the don.

“You won’t see them, sir. The submarine left the harbor four hours ago, bound south.”

“We are too late!” cried the don. “Tell me, did she have any passengers?”

“Bob Steele and the boat’s usual crew were aboard anyhow. I saw Bob Steele and his friend Ferral going out.”

“Did any one else go out to the boat?”

“Yes, Don Carlos Valdez and four or five negroes. They——”

The don whirled away and caught Carl’s arm.

“Too late!” he whispered hoarsely. “But perhaps there is still something we can do. Come! We will call on the American consul; we will tell him what we fear!”

Carl was in a daze. That serenade of his, which had proved a farce, seemed to be leading up to something tragic.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE SHADOW OF TREACHERY.

“What’s our next move going to be, Bob?” inquired Dick Ferral, sprawling out comfortably on top of the long locker in the periscope room.

Bob was just coming down the ladder after putting the riding lights in position.

“Wish I knew, Dick,” he answered, switching on the incandescent in the periscope room and dropping down on a low stool.

“I had a dream last night,” Dick resumed, giving a short laugh as he spoke. “I was doing as sound a caulk as ever I did in my life when that dream jumped in on me, and it was so blooming realistic that it brought me up in my bed with a yell.”

“You must have been eating some of the hot stuff they have down here, before you went to bed. The peppery grub they give you in Belize would make a wooden Indian have the nightmare! But what was it, old chap?”

“It was about Fingal.”

“Fingal?”

“Yes, Captain Abner Fingal, who’s now, I hope and believe, doing time in a United States federal prison.”

“Fingal,” observed Bob Steele, “is a tough old proposition to dream about.”

“I won’t forget in a hurry how he crossed our course, down there on the River Izaral, or how you came up under our gasoline launch with the good old Grampus, tipped over the launch, and released the prisoners and pulled them out of the water. Fingal and one of the rebel soldiers got away from us by the skin of their teeth. Do you remember how, when Fingal reached the bank, he got up on his knees and shook his fist after us?”

“I’ll not forget that in a hurry,” said Bob. “If Fingal could have had us in his hands then we’d have experienced a little more trouble than we could have taken care of. But what’s the dream?”

“Well, I thought I was adrift in a big forest, with Fingal and a lot of revolutionists hustling after me, full and by and forty knots, all with machetes. General Pitou, the French leader of the revolutionists, was with Fingal, and the whole pack of them had machetes in each hand and another between their teeth. Finally they caught me, and I was hacked in pieces——”

“Mighty pleasant, that!”

“They hung my head up in a tree,” proceeded Dick gruesomely, “and when I saw the rest of me scattered over the ground underneath, my nerves went to pieces and I fetched a yell that ought to have raised the roof. I tell you I was in a sweat! We’re not done with Abner Fingal, mate. He’ll foul our course before we’re many days older.”

“I don’t take any stock in dreams. They always come from a fellow’s stomach—something he eats that disagrees with him. As for Fingal, you can bet he’ll not come to Belize. He’d like to play even with us, all right, but he has got sense enough not to run his head into a noose.”

Speake, Gaines and Clackett were stowing supplies in another part of the boat. From time to time, as the boys talked, muffled thumps and a sound of distant voices came to them. Cassidy, the mate, was still ashore, taking care of the sick captain.

“What’s the latest news from Nemo, junior?” queried Dick. “The last I heard was this morning. The captain wasn’t so well then, Doctor Armstrong told me.”

“I saw Cassidy just before we started for the landing to come out to the submarine,” said Bob. “He said the doctor was sure the captain would pull through, but that he would need careful nursing, and not be bothered with business of any kind.”

“Cassidy will give him the right kind of nursing! I never saw any one so handy in that way, nor who tried to do more. Nemo, junior, ought to forgive Cassidy for his treachery, down there on the Izaral.”

“The captain will do that, I’m sure. Cassidy is mighty sorry he allowed his temper to run away with him. Fingal was responsible for what Cassidy did.”

“Fingal and the grog,” commented Dick. “A few tots of rum will make pirates and beach combers out of a lot of honest men. But why are you getting all these supplies aboard? We’re loaded to the marks with provisions, gasoline, oil, and everything else.”

“You know, don’t you,” returned Bob, “that Captain Nemo, junior, is planning to sell the Grampus to the United States government?”

“Yes, I know. The captain has had that bee in his bonnet for a long time.”

“When we went down the coast and rescued the American consul from the revolutionists, it was at the instigation of the United States authorities. Of course, they were anxious to have the consul rescued, but they were equally anxious to see what the Grampus could do.”

“Well, we showed ’em!” said Dick proudly. “The little old craft, and every one aboard, did themselves proud! What else does your government want?”

“I don’t know as the government wants anything else, but I have thought it best to keep the Grampus in trim for any demand that should be made on her. Any time, now, I’m expecting to see the U. S. cruiser Seminole stick her nose in the bay with orders for the Grampus to get under way for the Potomac, bound for Washington. If the order comes, it must find us in the pink of condition.”

“Suppose the order comes before the captain gets well?”

“Then the chances are he’ll ask us to carry out the order for him. We’re in pretty good shape to do that, even without the assistance of Cassidy. Our little crew of six can manage the craft, all right. Carl has been taking lessons from Clackett and can look after the tank room almost as well as Clackett himself; and you have learned to run the motor in a way that has made a hit with Gaines.”

“We’ll do, I guess,” said Dick, with a long breath of satisfaction. “With you as skipper, I wouldn’t be afraid to ride in the Grampus from here to the North Pole. Speaking of Carl, though, what’s become of the lubber? He cut his cables mighty sudden, seems to me.”

“He borrowed a guitar from a fellow in the hotel,” laughed Bob.

“A guitar? What does that mean?”

“I shouldn’t wonder if he had gone off to serenade somebody.”

Dick rolled over on his back and kicked the locker with his heels.

“Oh, my eye!” he sputtered. “It’s Ysabel Sixty! But Carl’s been gone some time.” Suddenly Dick hoisted up on his elbow and peered at his chum. “What do you say, Bob? Let’s go ashore to the place where Ysabel is staying. We can look over the fence and jolly our Dutch messmate just as he gets tuned up. How about a bit of a lark?”

“I’ll go you!” chuckled Bob; “but there’s no use starting for two or three hours yet. Midnight is the witching hour.”

“Carl’s showing good taste, anyhow,” continued Dick. “Ysabel Sixty is a fine girl. Now that her father, Jim Sixty, is put where he can’t interfere with her, she’s going to be happier than she ever was before. But Carl is off soundings. The girl hasn’t an eye for him, but for you.”

“Oh, rot!” grunted Bob.

“It’s a fact, all the same. The girl has taken a fancy to you, Bob, and you wouldn’t turn your head to look at the handsomest girl that ever walked. Gasoline motors are your hobby. You’re a born motorist. An explosive engine will be your best girl till the end of the chapter.”

Bob enjoyed this. Dick had a way, now and then, of giving a subject a humorous turn that was highly diverting. Just as Bob was on the point of giving some jesting reply, a voice came to them from without.

“Ahoy, de Grampus! Tumble out an’ pass us a line!”

Both boys gained their feet on the instant.

“That’s Sambo with his sailboat!” exclaimed Dick. “He’s bringing visitors. Nice time, this, to receive callers from Belize.”

“Perhaps it’s Carl coming back,” answered Bob, halfway up the iron ladder toward the conning-tower hatch.

“If it is,” went on Dick, laying hold of the ladder, “then our fun for to-night is knocked in the head.”

As soon as Bob got his head out of the hatch he saw a small sailboat hove to alongside the submarine. There were several men in her, and two were standing forward and aft to catch the ropes they were expecting to be thrown. Because of the evening dusk it was impossible to distinguish those in the boat, but it was plain that the craft was the one which the crew of the Grampus used for going ashore.

A dark shadow was thrown by the boat against the lighter background of water—a hovering, ominous shadow of treachery—all the more ominous because neither of the chums were suspecting underhand work there in those peaceable waters off the British town of Belize.

CHAPTER XX.
THE HIDDEN SNARE.

“Ahoy, yourself!” shouted Bob. “What do you want?”

“Dar’s a gemman here, Marse Cap’n, dat wants tuh come on bo’d,” answered the voice of Sambo.

“Who is he?”

Here another form pushed forward and another voice took up the conversation.

“Are you Bob Steele?” asked the voice.

“Yes.”

“You have charge of the submarine while Captain Nemo, junior, is sick?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re the person I wish to talk with. I am Don Ramon Ortega.”

Bob was deeply impressed by the name. Everybody in Belize had a good word to say for Don Ramon Ortega, the Spanish consul. He was a chivalrous gentleman of the old school, a friend of the United States when many other of his countrymen cherished a grudge against the country, and a philanthropic and kindly man in all his dealings.

“I shall be very glad to have you come aboard, Don Ortega,” called Bob respectfully, “but it is against our rules to allow more than one stranger aboard the Grampus at any one time.”

“Then I will come alone.”

Bob and Dick got out of the tower and each hurled a rope to those forward and aft on the sailboat. After the two boats had been hauled as close together as possible, a plank was shoved over the side of the sailboat and left with its outer end resting on the rounded deck of the submarine. Don Ramon turned and handed something to Sambo.

“Haul off,” said he, “and wait until you receive a signal from me. If you don’t receive a signal, put back to the landing.”

“All right, boss.”

Bob was a little surprised at this order, but presumed that he would soon be told why it had been given. Reaching out, he caught the don’s hand and helped him off the end of the plank.

“I must speak with you immediately,” said the don. “Can we go somewhere for a little private talk?”

“Certainly,” answered Bob, his wonder continuing to grow.

The don carried a canvas bag whose contents jingled musically with every movement. While Bob and Dick escorted their caller below, those on the sailboat hauled in the plank and stood off toward the shore.

Speake, Gaines, and Clackett were still busy stowing the supplies and getting the Grampus shipshape below decks. The two boys and their guest made themselves comfortable in the periscope room.

Don Ramon, as Bob looked at him now for the first time, had the appearance of a courtly gentleman. He was swarthy, well dressed, and his dark eyes, as they stared about him curiously, looked like points of polished jet.

The don took a cardcase from his pocket and extracted a square of pasteboard bearing the coat of arms of his native country, his name and the information that he was Spanish consul at Belize. He handed the card to Bob, who, in turn, passed it along to Dick.

“We have heard a good deal about you, don,” remarked Bob, “but this is the first time we have ever met.”

“And I have heard much about you,” was the answer, in most gracious tones; “very much to your credit. The recent performance of the Grampus made a deep impression upon me, and that is why I am here to-night. If you wish, you can render a great service to the cause of right and justice; possibly it hangs upon you to terminate the uprising in the unhappy little republic that lies to the south.”

Bob and Dick were all interest on the moment.

“What do you mean, don?” asked Bob.

“Pitou and his rebels have captured Port Livingstone and the fort on the headland across the river from the town. Every inch of the coast is guarded. The loyal army is marching from the Pacific side of the republic—very few in numbers and poorly armed. Pitou, the great rogue, has laid a trap for the loyalists. Unless General Mendez, in charge of the loyal troops, is communicated with to-morrow morning, there will be fighting and bloodshed, and perhaps the insurrectionists will win.”

Bob and Dick were following the don closely, wondering what he was driving at.

“Of course,” the don resumed, after a brief silence, “as Spanish consul, I am not warranted in mixing in the imbroglio. Whatever I do, I do in a private capacity, and merely as a preserver of peace. However, it is well known that the insurrection, headed by this soldier of fortune, Pitou, is merely for the sake of gain. If successful, Pitou and Fingal would get a grip on the throat of the little republic, and lawlessness would reign. You know something about Pitou and Fingal and their base methods and designs. Therefore, I come to you.”

“Why do you come to me?” inquired Bob.

“Why, with the submarine you could pass the mouth of the Izaral under water and unseen by the rebels; you could continue up the Izaral, still below the surface, to the place where the Purgatoire enters the stream. From that point I could communicate with General Mendez and warn him of the trap that has been laid by Pitou. The general could save his army—and the fate of the republic hangs on General Mendez. Will you do this? Will you assist Don Ramon Ortega in such a humanitarian work?”

Bob was dazed by the proposition.

“You,” pursued the don passionately, “come from a great and rich country, where there is always peace. Then have you got it in your heart to withhold a helping hand from a smaller and war-harried little country whose fate may hang upon your decision? See?”

The don pulled a stool in front of him, untied the canvas sack and spilled a heap of golden sovereigns out of it.

“Here are fifty pieces of gold, Bob Steele,” he went on, “and, if we are successful in passing the revolutionists and getting word to General Mendez, you shall have one thousand more. Will you do this for me, Don Ramon Ortega? Will you do it for humanity? I do not appeal to your wish for gain—you are above such sordid things—but I ask you in the name of right and justice! Lives, human lives, depend on you! The fate of a republic depends on you! As for the risk to you and the submarine—bah!” The don shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “Am I not going with you? Would I endanger my own life?”

The don paused anxiously for reply. Dick peered at his friend reflectively. Speake, Clackett, and Gaines, having finished their work below, had come to the periscope room and were standing in one of the bulkhead doors. They had heard the don’s proposition, and the gold was sparkling its lure in their greedy eyes.

“I am sorry, don,” said Bob, with a note of deep regret in his voice, “but I have not the authority to let you have the Grampus for any such work.”

“You are the captain?”

“I am in charge of the boat while her captain is sick. You should take your proposition to Captain Nemo, junior.”

“I went to see him, but the doctor refused to let me in. The doctor said the captain was unable to talk with anybody. So I came to you.”

“I haven’t the authority, don,” repeated Bob firmly. “Wait until the captain is able to talk business. I can’t risk the boat.”

“There is no risk!”

“Perhaps not; but I have no more right to take this boat out of the harbor, don, than you have.”

The don passed his dejected glance from Bob to Dick, and then toward the three faces in the narrow doorway.

Gaines pushed forward.

“Bob,” said he, “I think you might stretch a point. Them golden sovs look mighty fine to me. There’s two hundred an’ fifty dollars’ worth there, and we’re promised five thousand dollars’ worth more. Cap’n Nemo, junior, if he was able, would tell us to go ahead an’ capture the prize money. I move we hook up with the don.”

“Might jest as well turn a few honest dollars, Bob,” put in Speake, “as to be layin’ idle here, off Belize.”

“My idee, exactly,” said Clackett. “I know the cap’n would do it if he was able to hear the don’s proposition.”

“Why not?” said Dick, in a low tone.

Bob shook his head decidedly.

“I’d go in a minute if I had the right to do so,” said he, “but I haven’t. Suppose the Seminole should put into the harbor to-night with orders for the Grampus? You know what it would mean, Dick.”

Dick was silent, but not convinced. The men were disappointed, and watched the don as he shoved the gold coins back into the bag.

“I am sorry, too,” said he, tying up the bag, “and I feel, Bob Steele, that you are letting a lot of useless red tape interfere with your duties to humanity.”

“Perhaps, don, I merely understand my duty better than you do,” answered Bob, respectfully but firmly. “I haven’t any love for Pitou, or Fingal, or the rascally revolutionists, and I promise you this, that I will see Captain Nemo, junior, personally in the morning, and, if the doctor will let me, will put your proposition before him. If he agrees, we will start for the south at once.”

“That will be too late,” said the don, getting up and taking his bag of sovereigns. “I will bid you good evening, hail my boat, and go ashore,” he added stiffly.

With chilly dignity he climbed the conning-tower ladder and hailed the sailboat. Bob, Dick, and the others saw him safely aboard and the boat headed shoreward; then again went below.

“I’m tired,” announced Bob, cutting short a further discussion of the don and his proposition, “and I’m going to bed. You and Clackett, Gaines, will have the anchor watch till midnight. After that, call Dick and me.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Gaines.

Dick accompanied Bob to a room abaft the periscope chamber, in which a couple of cots had been set up, and silently the two chums turned in. Nothing more was said about going ashore to interrupt Carl’s serenade. Bob knew that Dick thought he should have accepted the don’s proposition, and yet, feeling that he was in the right, did not care to discuss the matter. With a hearty good night to Dick, he turned over and went to sleep.

How long Bob slept he did not know, but he was awakened by the throb of a motor and started bolt upright in his bed.

The Grampus was moving! The roll of the craft proved that she was on the surface and under way. All was dark in the little steel room, and Bob got up and groped for the switch that turned on the incandescent light. A moment later there was a dazzling glow, and Bob looked at the bulkhead doors. They had been open when he and Dick retired, and now they were closed!

He started for the door leading to the periscope room. Just as he laid his hand on it, Dick roused up.

“What’s the meaning of this?” queried Dick, rubbing his eyes. “We seem to be on the move.”

“We are,” answered Bob grimly.

“Who’s in charge, and where are we going?”

“Give it up! All I know is that we’re locked in.” Then he began shaking the steel door and kicking against it. “Gaines!” he yelled.

CHAPTER XXI.
A MUTINY.

“What is it, Bob?” asked the muffled voice of Gaines from the other side of the closed door.

“Let me out of here!” ordered Bob.

“Can’t do it just yet, Bob,” answered Gaines apologetically.

“What does this mean?”

“It means that we’re going to help out General Mendez with that warning of the don’s. You wouldn’t take the responsibility, but Speake and Clackett and me are willin’ to bear it.”

“Do you mean to say,” cried Bob hotly, “that you have deliberately sailed away from Belize without permission from Captain Nemo, junior, or from me?”

“That’s the size of it,” was the respectful but decisive answer. “We know that the cap’n would tell us to go ahead and help the don. We ain’t finding any fault with you for not doing it on your own hook, ’cause you’re a stickler for what you think’s your duty. We feel we’re doin’ right, though, and we want you to feel the same way.”

“This is mutiny!” cried Bob.

“That’s a pretty hard name for it, Bob. I’ve been in ships, man and boy, for thirty years, and this is the first time any one ever accused me of mutiny. We just think we know what ought to be done and are goin’ ahead and doin’ it. You’ll be able to tell the cap’n, when you next see him, that you couldn’t help yourself. Speake, Clackett, and me are banking on it that the cap’n’ll say we did just right.”

This line of reasoning surprised Bob. For a moment he was silent, turning it over in his mind.

“I can hardly believe this of you, Gaines,” said the young motorist finally. “How are you running the ship?”

“We’re short-handed, and that’s a fact; still, we’re making shift to get along. We’re running on the surface, so Clackett don’t have anything to do in the tank room, and he’s running the engine.”

“Who’s doing the steering?”

“The don’s doing that. He knows the coast, he says, and he seems to be right handy with the wheel. But I’m watchin’ to see that he don’t make any flukes.”

“You’ll have us on the rocks first thing you know!” cried Bob. “Put her about and go-back to Belize.”

“You might just as well understand, Bob,” answered Gaines firmly, “that we’ve started on this business and we’re going to see it through. We want your good will—and we think you’ll give it to us before we’re done with this cruise. It’s a short cruise, anyhow, and we ought to be back at Belize by to-morrow night.”

“If anything happens to the Grampus,” said Bob, “you’ll be held responsible.”

“We’re willin’. We went into this with our eyes wide open. First thing we did was to shut both doors of that room and lock ’em; then we heaved up the anchors as quiet as we could, and you and Dick were so sound asleep you didn’t hear a thing. It’s two in the morning now, and we’re well down the coast—so far down that we might as well see this thing through as to put back. Don’t you think so?”

“It doesn’t appear to make much difference what I think,” said Bob grimly.

“Well, not a terrible sight,” went on Gaines, “only, as I said, we’d rather have your good will than your bad.”

“How did you work this? How did the don get back?”

“He stood off and on in the sailboat. As soon as you were asleep, Clackett and I dickered with him, and he came aboard.”

“I haven’t much of an opinion of Don Ramon Ortega!” exclaimed Bob. “Any man who will hire a crew to disobey orders has a crooked strain in him somewhere.”

“We’re doin’ this for humanity,” asserted Gaines, in a highly virtuous tone.

“Bosh,” scoffed Bob. “You’re doing it for five thousand two hundred and fifty dollars—which you won’t get.”

“Won’t get?” demanded Gaines, in ludicrous alarm.

“That’s my view of it, Gaines. There’s something wrong with Don Ramon. After what he’s done, I’m positive that he told us a pretty tall yarn. Let me out of here!”

“Sorry, but it ain’t to be thought of—just yet. When you and Dick will promise to go with us, and not make any trouble, we’ll let you out.”

“Looks as though we’d have to go with you whether we wanted to or not, you old pirate!” cried Dick.

“Aren’t you with us, Dick?” called Gaines, in a pleading voice. “We hate to have the two of you against us.”

“With you,” whooped Dick, “and against Bob! Well, I should say not! You’re a lot of blooming beach combers to act in this way.”

“But you thought the don’s proposition was all right.”

“Never mind what I thought of the don or his proposition—it’s what Bob thought about it that concerns me. Oh, you’re a nice lot, you are! If you know when you’re well off, you’ll haul that don out of the conning tower and put him in double irons; then you’ll let Bob and me out of here and obey orders. It’s not too late yet to undo the trouble you’ve caused. Just let that bounce around in your head for a while and see what you make of it.”

“We’re in this thing now, and we’re going to hang to it,” was the dogged response.

Gaines turned away and the two chums could hear him moving off. Bob went over to his cot and sat down.

“Great guns!” he exclaimed. “Who’d ever have thought Speake, Gaines, and Clackett would take the bit in their teeth like this?”

“They mean well, perhaps,” said Dick, with a grim laugh. “They are trying to take the responsibility off your shoulders, Bob. They could see that you were hungry to go with the don, but that you didn’t think you had the right. They’ve shouldered that part of it themselves.”

“And they’ve got us into trouble,” said Bob. “There’s something off color about Don Ramon Ortega or he wouldn’t have hired Speake, Gaines, and Clackett to do this directly against my orders.”

“Don Ramon is pretty high in Belize.”

“He’s not what I thought he was.”

“Well, we’re in for it,” laughed Dick.

“In more ways than one,” said Bob moodily.

“We’re bound for the Izaral again, and will probably save that devoted outfit of ’breeds commanded by General Mendez.”

“If I can get out of here they’ll never put this boat into the River Izaral.”

“That’s all right!” exclaimed Dick. “But what could you do? There are four against us, counting the don—two to one.”

“I’ll do my best. As for Gaines, Speake, and Clackett, they wouldn’t dare lay hands on me. I can take care of the don, I guess!” Bob’s gray eyes flashed dangerously.

“They’ll not let us out of here, old ship,” said Dick. “Gaines and the rest know their business.”

The steel room was as solid as a prison cell. There were small ventilators for admitting fresh air, but these were no larger than loopholes. Apart from the ventilators there were absolutely no other openings in the metal walls except the closed doors.

Bob laid down on the cot again and continued turning the situation over in his mind.

The thing that worried him was the possibility of the cruiser Seminole putting in at Belize with orders for the Grampus—orders which might have something to do with the sale of the boat to the United States government.

Bob, who was in Captain Nemo, junior’s, confidence more than any of the others, understood that such a sale was the object for which the captain was striving—that it was that, and nothing else, which had led him to bring the submarine into Central American waters. And now to have the captain run the risk of losing a sale through the misguided and utterly unwarranted action of Speake, Clackett, and Gaines was a hard thing to bear.

Yet Bob could see no way out of the difficulty. Gaines and his two shipmates were determined to help the don, and the boat was well along toward the Izaral.

For three or four hours Bob lay sleeplessly on his cot, listening to the hum of the motor and rolling back and forth with the rough swaying of the boat.

Then, suddenly, he was brought up with a start. The steady song of the cylinders had given way to an ineffectual popping, and he knew that something had gone wrong. The propeller ceased its revolutions, and the submarine came to a dead stop and rolled helplessly in the swell.

“Something’s busted,” remarked Dick, sitting up.

Muffled voices could be heard and sounds of movements as though one of the crew were going aft to the engine room. Again and again the noise reached Bob’s ears, but the motor would not take the spark properly.

After half an hour of this, some one banged a fist sharply against the other side of the door.

“Bob!” called the voice of Gaines.

“Well?” answered the young motorist.

“You’ll have to go and fix up the motor. I’ll be hanged if I can do it.”

“You’re running the boat,” said Bob. “Fix it up yourself.”

“I tell you it’s too many for me!”

“You ought to have thought that something like that might happen before you started out. You’re in trouble now, so get out of it the best you can.”

Bob, highly enjoying the situation, settled back on his cot.

“Something has got to be done quick,” cried Gaines, “for we’re in danger!”

“What sort of danger?” Bob had bounded from the cot and was close to the door as he spoke.

“There’s a line of reefs on the port side, and the current is drawing us that way! Unless we get the propeller to work in less than fifteen minutes the Grampus will be wrecked!”

“Open the door!” said Bob sharply.

“You won’t make us any trouble?” parried Gaines.

“Open the door, I tell you!” shouted Bob. “We haven’t a minute to lose!”

Without a promise to bind him as to his future course, Bob was allowed to leave the steel room. Paying no attention to the don, who was standing in the periscope chamber, he rushed through another door, dropped down a narrow hatch, and crawled aft to the motor room.

CHAPTER XXII.
A LESSON IN “WHO’S WHO.”

In order to reach the motor room, Bob had to crawl through a low chamber closely packed with storage batteries. There were sixty cells with a power of one hundred and sixty volts, and with a capacity of what is known, in electrical parlance, as sixteen hundred ampere hours. This room was Speake’s dominion, and he sat on a low stool, his head just clearing the deck above, watching furtively as Bob scrambled past him.

Tucked away in the stern, at the end of the floored space, was the motor room. It looked like the tunnel shaft of an ocean liner. At one side there were switchboards for two dynamotors: one of ten horse power to compress air, and a second of two horse power to supply lights and assist the ventilation. The spiral resistance coils were close to the switchboards. The gasoline engine was in the center of the compartment, and back of this stretched the shaft, finally passing out into the water through a stuffing box.

Bob glanced at a clock on the wall. From somewhere in the distance he could hear breakers churning soddenly against a reef.

Clackett, crouching low in the curve of the boat’s side, looked anxiously at Bob. He paid no attention to Clackett, but gave the fly wheel a sharp turn, and listened. It was marvelous how completely he was in touch with the engine.

“Did you strain the gasoline before you put it into the tank?” he demanded of Clackett.

“Always do that, Bob,” was the reply.

“The carburetter valve is clogged. Lay hold here.”

In ten minutes the valve was clear, the engine “turned over,” and the motor working properly. Bob switched the power into the propeller.

“All right, periscope room!” he called through a tube.

“Bully!” came back the voice of Gaines. “We were almost on the rocks. You’re the boy, Bob!”

“Send Dick Ferral down here,” ordered Bob curtly.

Dick presently appeared.

“Take charge of the engine, Dick,” said Bob.

“What are you going to do?” asked Dick.

“You’ll know in a few minutes.” He turned to Clackett. “Go up to the periscope room, Clackett,” he went on. “I may need you.”

“But say, Bob——”

“You heard what I said!”

There was that in Bob Steele’s voice and eyes that sent Clackett crawling forward along the passage.

Bob followed him. In the battery room they picked up Speake, and Bob sent him trailing after Clackett. In that order all three finally gained the periscope room.

“What the blazes is the matter with you fellows?” shouted Gaines, who was doing the steering himself, and was standing by the periscope table.

“Keep your eyes on the periscope,” said Bob. “Attend to your work, Gaines.”

Bob whirled about to where the don was sitting on a stool. There was a sharp gleam in the Spaniard’s eyes, although he was otherwise cool and perfectly collected.

“This is a good time to give you fellows a lesson in who’s who aboard the Grampus,” said Bob. “Don Ramon, you did a rascally thing when you hired these men to take you south in direct defiance of my orders.”

“What of it?” The don shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll soon be at the mouth of the Izaral——”

“We are not going to the Izaral River,” cut in Bob. “We are going back to Belize.”

“We are not going back to Belize until we finish our work in the Izaral,” was the insolent response.

“No?” returned Bob coolly. “We’ll see. Gaines?” he called.

“Aye, aye, sir!” answered Gaines, keeping his eyes on the periscope.

“Put about!”

Gaines made no move to shift the wheel.

“You heard what I said, Gaines?” went on Bob, his voice pitched low but carrying an emphasis that lifted it above the hum of the motor.

“I heard you, Bob,” replied Gaines.

“Either obey the order or give up the wheel to Clackett.”

Brought directly face to face with the issue, Gaines hesitated. The sharp eyes of the don noted the effect the masterful young man’s words were having on Gaines.

“Don’t you do it, Gaines,” said the don coolly. “Think of the money you’re to get. Bob Steele has not the courage——”

“Don’t talk foolish!” growled Gaines. “Bob’s got more pluck in a minute than any of the rest of us have in a year. I know him.”

“He hasn’t the courage to go to the Izaral,” growled the don.

“He’s only off’n his course a little about that,” answered Gaines.

“Will you obey orders, Gaines, or leave your post?” asked Bob.

“He’ll obey my orders,” flashed the don, “and he’ll stay right where he is and hold to his present course.”

As the don spoke he pulled a hand from the breast of his coat. The hand gripped a revolver.

“That’s your game, is it?” asked Bob, peering steadily into the snaky orbs of the Spaniard.

“We have come thus far on my mission,” returned the don, “and we are going the rest of the way.”

“Put up that gun!” said Gaines angrily. “If you try any shootin’, we’ll throw our hands in the air and put back to Belize.”

Speake and Clackett moved forward. Bob waved them aside.

“I’ll manage this,” said he. “Gaines, keep your eyes on the periscope. A fine fellow, this don of yours. You men ought to feel proud of the way you hooked up with him, and——”

Bob, while he was talking, had kept covert eyes on the don. At just that moment the Grampus gave a heavy roll. The don’s stool slid back against the steel wall and the point of the revolver was thrown, for the fraction of a second, toward the curving deck, overhead. This was Bob’s opportunity. Quick as a flash he hurled himself upon the Spaniard, bore him from the stool, and they rolled over and over upon the heaving floor.

The struggle lasted only a few moments, and when Bob withdrew from the don and got to his feet, he was holding the revolver.

“I’ll make you answer for this!” cried the don, in a furious temper.

“You are welcome to try—just as soon as we get back to Belize,” said Bob. “If this matter is aired, it won’t sound very well when your government hears of it.”

A mocking light crossed the don’s angry face.

“I’m not afraid of my government,” he exclaimed.

“Throw it overboard, Speake,” said Bob, handing the revolver to Speake. “We don’t need that thing here. If I can’t have obedience on the Grampus without looking at her crew over the sights of a gun, I don’t want it.”

Speake, without a word, took the revolver and went up the ladder into the conning tower.

“From this on, Don Ramon Ortega,” said Bob, “you will consider yourself a passenger. I will treat you better than your conduct demands, and will not make a prisoner of you unless you attempt to interfere with the management of the boat. Do you understand that?”

The don muttered something under his breath, and before Bob could speak further, a shout came from Speake.

“Small boat off the starboard beam, close in!”

“By Jupiter!” exclaimed Gaines, pushing farther into the hood of the periscope. “Look here, Bob!”

As Bob turned, an evil, triumphant light flashed in the don’s eyes. Bob could not see it, and it escaped Clackett.

In the mirror top of the periscope table, clear and distinct, was reflected a ship’s boat, a yawl, heaving helplessly on the waves. The boat was not over a hundred feet from the submarine, and the periscope showed it with startling fidelity to detail.

Aboard the yawl were five persons—four men and a boy. They seemed to be in difficult straits, for the men were standing erect and waving their hats frantically.

“They’ve been shipwrecked, Bob,” said Gaines, “and they’ve lost their oars.”

One of the men was a burly individual, wearing an oil-skin coat and a sou’wester. All the others were roughly dressed, the boy wearing a pea-jacket and a stocking cap pulled well down over his face.

“There’s a sailing craft hull down, off to port,” said Bob. “It’s a wonder that boat didn’t pick those fellows up. But that’s unimportant. We’ll lay them aboard and take them off. Clackett!”

“Here, Bob!” answered Clackett.

“Take two coils of rope and go aloft.” Bob turned to Gaines. “Get as close to the boat as you can, Gaines,” he added.

Clackett rushed up the conning-tower ladder, and followed Speake out onto the curving plates of the deck. Bob went after the two men to direct operations from the conning tower.

Those in the boat—with the exception of the boy—appeared in the last stages of exhaustion. On seeing that their wild signals were to be answered, they dropped sprawling over the thwarts. The boy still stood erect and made gestures—stealthy movements with one hand which puzzled Bob.

“That youngster seems to have stood their hard luck better’n the men,” remarked Clackett, moving toward the bow with a coil of rope.

Bob made no answer, but continued to watch the dancing yawl as Gaines brought the submarine steadily nearer.

“Stand by to catch a rope!” shouted Bob presently, when they were close enough for a cast. “Let ’er go, Clackett!”

The rope left Clackett’s hand, untwined itself sinuously in the air, and the end of it was grabbed by the big fellow in the sou’wester.

“All fast!” he boomed in a voice that was strangely strong for one whose actions showed him to be nearly fagged out.

Speake’s rope was then thrown, and thus, with a double cable, the yawl was drawn close against the rounded side of the submarine.

In the periscope room were only the don and Gaines. Gaines’ head was shrouded by the folds of the black periscope hood, and the don, unseen, was rubbing his hands delightedly.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SNARE TIGHTENS.

The yawl was on the windward side of the Grampus. Bob, calling down directions to Gaines, had the submarine brought about so that the yawl lay on the lee side. This, to some extent, gave smoother water for the unloading of the small boat’s passengers.

Speake, holding to one of the wire guys that supported the periscope tube, descended the rounded deck, until up to his knees in water. Stretching out his hand he caught the fist of the big fellow in the sou’wester. The latter, standing on the gunwale of the yawl, gave a leap and landed sprawling on the submarine’s deck.

A wave rolled over him, but he managed to clutch the guy rope and hang on. The next moment he rolled over close to the conning tower and lay there, face down, apparently almost spent.

Clackett, imitating Speake’s maneuver, was bringing another of the men aboard. One by one the yawl was unloaded, the boy being the last to come.

Bob, climbing out of the conning tower, ordered the rescued men below. Two of them had vanished through the hatch when Bob, bending over the big fellow by the base of the conning tower, asked him who he and his comrades were, and how they happened to be adrift in a small boat.

“Had er shipwreck,” answered the man hoarsely.

“Can’t you get up?” asked Bob. “We’ll have to get you below, somehow.”

“Mebbe I kin make it if yer put yer arms under mine an’ give me a lift.”

Bracing himself on the deck, Bob reached downward and pushed his hands under the man’s armpits. At the same moment, the big fellow developed a surprising amount of strength. Both his arms went upward, as he whirled over on his back, and closed about Bob’s waist like the two jaws of a vise.

“Now, then, nail ’em, you swabs!” he roared. “I got the boss o’ the gang, an’ you git the rest!”

Not until that moment did Bob Steele suspect treachery. The revelation came to him like a lightning flash.

A wild uproar echoed from below, and forward and aft Speake and Clackett were struggling with those they had helped aboard.

The rounded deck of the Grampus, slippery with water and deluged again and again by the waves, was a fearsome place for such a struggle. How the combatants ever kept themselves out of the sea was a mystery.

Bob fought as best he could. He recognized the big fellow as Abner Fingal, and knew, as well as though he had been told, that Don Ramon Ortega had engineered a cunning plot for the capture of the submarine.

“What are you trying to do, Fingal?” Bob demanded, as the scoundrel held him helpless in his ironlike grip.

“Trying to even up fer some o’ the things you done a spell ago!” roared Fingal. “Stop yer squirmin’, or——”

With a fierce effort, Bob succeeded in breaking free. He rose to his knees, only to meet the flintlike fist of Fingal. The terrific blow hurled him backward, and he slid along the sloping deck against the guy rope that supported the small flagstaff, close to the bow.

Fingal jumped after him, caught him by the collar, and pulled him back before he could slip from the support of the rope and drop into the sea. The jerk Fingal gave him hurled Bob headfirst against the iron socket in which the base of the staff was secured to the deck. It was a savage blow, and Bob straightened out limply and a wave of darkness rolled over him.

When Bob opened his eyes again, he was in the same room where he and Dick had been confined by Gaines, Speake, and Clackett. But there was another prisoner now, for Speake was with Bob and Dick.

Dick, on a stool beside the cot, was rubbing Bob’s temples. Across from them, on the other cot, Speake was sitting, nursing a bruise on the side of his face.

“Hard luck, old boy!” muttered Dick ominously. “How are you feeling?”

“None too good,” answered Bob.

“You got a crack fore and aft. It’s a wonder one of ’em didn’t bash in your skull.”

“It wasn’t the blows I received that’s hurting me now, Dick,” Bob went on, “but the fact that we were trapped when we thought we were helping a boatload of shipwrecked sailors. Have they captured the boat?”

“Well, I should say! That outfit of pirates swarmed all over her. I was down in the engine room, you know, and, while I knew by the racket that something was happening that wasn’t down on the bills, yet I didn’t dare leave the motor. After a while the racket died out a little and I called up through the speaking tube to learn what was going on. Some one laughed; then, the next I knew, Fingal came driving Gaines along. A swab trailed after Fingal, and both of ’em had guns. I was ordered up to the periscope room, and Gaines was sent to the motor, the other chap staying with him and keeping the gun aimed at him all the time. Oh, I guess you fellows have got enough of helping the don, haven’t you?” and Dick turned to Speake.

“We was a pack of fools,” answered Speake.

“What happened to you, Speake?” inquired Bob.

“The same as happened to all the rest,” was the growling response. “That was a husky lot o’ shipwrecked mariners we picked up! They didn’t seem hardly able to crawl aboard, but they woke up considerable as soon as they got their feet on the Grampus’ deck. I had it which an’ t’other with a chap for’ard o’ the connin’ tower, and I held my own until Clackett was downed and the man that was goin’ for him came at me. Then, o’ course, I had to give up. Clackett an’ me was sent below at the pistol’s p’int. Clackett’s in the tank room, and Gaines is in the motor room, both with a couple of the thieves holdin’ guns on them an’ makin’ ’em run the boat. The don’s steerin’, and we’re hikin’ right on toward Port Livingstone. Oh, what a howlin’ mess!”

Bob sat up and bowed his head in his hands for a moment. His head ached, and he was trying to think and get at the full extent of the disaster.

“It was all a put-up job,” remarked Dick.

“That’s easy to guess, Dick,” returned Bob, lifting his head. “The boat I saw hull down, off on the port side of us, must have been Fingal’s schooner, the North Star. The schooner was expecting the don along with the Grampus, and was laying to get that crew of rascals aboard of us. Dropping the yawl in the water, the schooner left the boat behind. Oh, I see it all now. But I can’t understand this Don Ramon Ortega. This business will open the eyes of a good many people in Belize.”

“But what’s the upshot of it all? What’s the don tryin’ to do?” This from Speake, as he continued to nurse his injury.

“I can see through him, all right enough,” said Dick. “He’s playing even with us for what we did on the Izaral River, a few days ago.”

“He has captured the Grampus,” added Bob, “and probably intends to turn her over to General Pitou.”

“An’ there wasn’t anythin’ in that story of the don’s?” asked Speake. “It was a pretty good story, an’ sounded to me like it might be straight goods.”

“The don is helping Fingal,” returned Bob, “and the submarine is now in the hands of the five we ‘rescued’ from the yawl, and the don. There are six of our enemies and only five of us. Naturally, we don’t count, being locked up in this steel room; and Gaines and Clackett can’t count for much, either, with revolvers staring them in the face whichever way they turn. This is a hard row of stumps for us, pards!”

“An’ all owin’ to Clackett, an’ Gaines, an’ me!” mourned Speake.

“There’s nothing to be gained thinking over that part of it, Speake,” said Bob. “We’ve got to look this thing squarely in the face and do what we can to recapture the submarine.”

“Nothin’ we can do!” grunted Speake. “That outfit of roughs have got the whip hand of us, and they’re going to keep it. They was wise to keep Gaines an’ Clackett to attend to the runnin’ of the machinery, an’ I guess the don can do the steerin’, easy enough.”

“I wonder if there was any truth at all in the don’s story?” ventured Bob.

“In what part of it?” queried Dick.

“Why, about the revolutionists capturing Port Livingstone, and the fort across the river.”

“If part o’ his yarn’s crooked,” grumbled Speake, “then I’ll gamble the whole of it’s crooked. Why, Bob? What difference does that make?”

“Well, if Port Livingstone is in the hands of the revolutionists, then we’ll be taken there, and not up the Izaral.”

“Wait!” exclaimed Dick, as a sudden thought came to him. “Don Ramon Ortega is in mighty poor business if he’s helping these revolutionists. What a two-faced swab he is! When he talked with us, last evening, he was all against the rebels; now he’s for them. What will the Spanish government say to that sort of work?”

“There’s something about Don Ramon that’s mighty puzzling,” said Bob. “He’s a scheming scoundrel, though, and it’s our business to recapture the Grampus—if we can.”

“How’ll we go to work, Bob?” asked Speake gloomily. “Every man in Fingal’s party is armed. What could five of us do ag’inst six armed men, providin’ we was able to bunch together and face ’em?”

At this point, the door leading into the periscope room opened and the don and Fingal stepped through. Bob, Dick, and Speake all started up on the entrance of the two men, but the latter carried revolvers, and another armed man stood in the doorway behind them.

“Don’t get reckless, you fellows!” warned Fingal. “We ain’t particularly anxious to hurt ye, but there’s no tellin’ what’ll happen if you try to climb over us an’ git through that door.” The burly ruffian turned toward his companion. “Fire away, don,” he added, “an tell ’em what you got on your mind.”

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE DON’S PROPOSAL.

Before the don could follow Fingal’s suggestion and unburden himself of what he wanted to say, the splash and gurgle of water entering the submersion tanks reached the ears of those in the steel room. At the same moment a shiver ran through the boat’s fabric and she began to sink.

“What are you doing?” demanded Bob sharply.

“Going under the water,” explained the don affably. “We’re off Port Livingstone and are going to proceed up the Izaral without being seen.”

“What’s that for? If the town and the fort are in the hands of the rebels, you won’t have anything to fear.”

“We don’t know whether the rebels have captured the fort yet or not,” said the don, “and we don’t want to take any chances of being sunk by the fort’s guns in case they are still in the hands of the enemy.”

“If you don’t know anything about this boat,” said Bob, “you’ll get us all into trouble trying to maneuver it.”

“Gaines an’ Clackett, I guess,” put in Fingal, “will keep us from gettin’ inter any very serious fix. They’re helpin’ run the craft, ye know,” Fingal leered cunningly. “Go ahead, don,” he added, as the submarine halted its downward plunge and started onward again.

“Bob Steele,” said the don, “I have a proposition to make to you and your men. You will find it to your interest, I think, to accept it.”

“What’s the proposition?” asked Bob curtly.

The more Bob Steele studied Don Ramon, the more puzzling the man became. His English was good, and yet he was undeniably of Spanish descent. Somehow Bob was gathering the idea that the don was a native of Central America, and not of Spain; yet Bob knew that this could not be, for he had heard that the Spanish consul at Belize hailed from Barcelona.

“My friend Fingal,” proceeded the don, “appears to think that you and your men owe him something on account of what happened during your former visit to the River Izaral, and——”

“So they do!” growled Fingal, with a savage frown; “they owe me somethin’ not only on account o’ that, but on account o’ my brother, Jim Sixty. If it hadn’t been for them, Jim would never have got nabbed by the United States gov’ment for filibusterin’. I swore I’d git even with ’em for——”

“Forget that for a little, Fingal,” interposed the don. “I’ve reasoned with Fingal,” he said to Bob, “and he has agreed to let bygones be bygones, providing you fall in with our plans.”

He paused, his piercing eyes on the young motorist’s face.

“I’m waiting to hear what your plans are,” said Bob.

“We captured this boat for the revolutionists,” continued the don, “and she will be of great help to General Pitou in his work; but, in order to be as efficient as possible, the craft ought to be manned with her regular crew. So——”

“Then that story you told us about General Mendez, and about the trap Pitou was laying for him, was untrue?”

“Much of it was not the exact truth,” the don cheerfully admitted. “General Mendez and his force are not far from the Purgatoire River, but it is he who is laying the trap for Pitou, and not Pitou for him. General Pitou will have to capture the fort at the mouth of the Izaral and be able to turn its guns on General Mendez, or the loyalist forces will drive the rebels into the sea. In order to keep track of Mendez, we need the submarine for scout duty up and down the river. Now, Bob Steele, you are thoroughly familiar with the boat, and our proposal is that you and your men take charge of her and render gallant service for General Pitou. Some of our men, of course, will stay on the boat to make sure that you prove faithful to your promises to us, but that will be a mere formality.

“If you will do this, I promise to pay you the sum, in gold, that I mentioned when talking to you in the harbor at Belize. Furthermore, in the event that General Pitou’s uprising is successful, and we make him dictator of the country, you and your friends will share liberally in the division of the spoils. What do you say? You are young men—mere youths, in fact—and such a golden prospect ought to appeal to you.”

Bob stared at the don. “And you,” he breathed, “are the Spanish consul at Belize! What would happen to you if they knew, in Spain, how you are meddling with the affairs of a country with which your own is at peace?”

“I might just as well puncture that bubble here and now,” returned the don, with a laugh. “I am not Don Ramon Ortega, the Spanish consul, but Don Carlos Valdez, the revolutionist.”

Bob started back. “Don Carlos Valdez!” he exclaimed. “We heard about you in Belize, Don Carlos.”

“And what do they say about me in Belize?”

“Why, that you’re the greatest rascal unhung!”

“They say more than that,” added Speake wrathfully, “and that you’ll be hung, one o’ these fine days.”

Speake was chagrined and spiteful because of the way he and his mates had been taken in by the plausible revolutionist at the start-off. He saw, now, how farsighted Bob Steele was in refusing to have anything to do with the don.

Carlos Valdez smiled ironically. “What they say doesn’t make any material difference,” he answered. “I have been in Belize for a week. I walked the streets openly, and no one dared to molest me. Why, I even went to the Spanish consul and asked for a passport. While he was preparing to make it out, I felled him with a blow and left him bound and gagged in his own sitting room. I had to do that, you see, before I dared to call on you, Bob Steele, and impersonate him.”

“At any rate,” said Bob Steele, “I am glad of one thing.”

“And that is?”

“That Don Ramon Ortega is not the villain I know you to be.”

“Your opinion counts for as little as does that of the people of Belize,” returned the don easily. “You have not answered my question as to whether you and your men would accept our proposal.”

“I didn’t think it was necessary to answer it,” said Bob. “I would blow up the Grampus before I would allow her to fall into the hands of General Pitou.”

“Better think well before you make a foolish answer like that,” struck in Fingal.

“That’s my answer, just the same.”

“How about the rest of you?” The don turned to Dick and Speake.

“What Bob Steele says matches my sentiments to a dot,” replied Dick.

“Mine, too,” added Speake. “If me and my mates had obeyed Bob Steele like we’d ought to have done, we’d never have got into this fix in the first place. It may be a little late in the day, but here’s where I begin carryin’ out his orders jest as he gives ’em.”

“Do you know what this decision means?” queried the don gravely.

“I’m not thinking of that, but of my duty to Captain Nemo, junior,” said Bob.

“It means,” fumed Fingal, enraged at the refusal of Bob and his friends to cast their lot with the revolutionists, “that you’ll never live to get back to Belize!”

“Or even back down the river to Port Livingstone,” supplemented the don. “Presently we are going to tie up at an old landing on the river bank. After that, we will leave you by yourselves until nightfall. This will give you a little more time to think over our proposition. Life is a pleasant thing to young men like you, and you ought not to cast it lightly aside. Come on, Fingal,” he finished.

The don and Fingal stepped back into the periscope room, closing and locking the door behind them.

Dick went over to his cot and sat down with a mirthless laugh.

“The old Spaniard has given us his ultimatum,” said he. “We must either run the submarine for the revolutionists, or go to Davy Jones. Pleasant prospect, eh?”

“Wonder if they’ve batted up the same proposition to Gaines and Clackett?” mused Speake.

“Probably they have,” said Bob. “They want to secure the services of the submarine’s crew, and Gaines and Clackett are important members of the ship’s company.”

“What sort of a move would it be,” suggested Dick, “to pretend to join the swabs and then, watching our chances, cut and run back to Belize?”

Bob shook his head.

“They wouldn’t trust us even if we agreed to join them. Didn’t you hear what was said about having an armed guard constantly on the boat, as a ‘mere formality?’ No, Dick, the best thing for us will be to come out flatfooted and let the rascals know just where we stand. If they attempt to take any desperate measures against us, we will claim the protection of Old Glory.”

“What do they care about a piece of bunting?” returned Dick. “See how they ran off that American consul! Why, these revolutionists aren’t responsible for any thing, and they’ll do just what they please.”

In his own heart, Bob himself felt that Dick was stating the exact truth.

While the boys and Speake were talking, the turbines could be heard emptying the ballast tanks, and the boat began slowly rising. A little later the boys knew they were on the surface of the river. Steps were heard running along the deck, overhead, and a sound of voices came to them. Then there was a bumping along one side of the hull, a stopping of the motor, and the submarine was at a halt.

“I suppose we’re tied up at that landing,” observed Dick, “and here we’re to stay and think matters over until nightfall, as the don put it. By the way, isn’t it about time to eat? You and I, Bob, haven’t had a mouthful since last night.”

The words were hardly off of Dick’s lips when the door leading into the periscope room opened and closed. The prisoners caught a glimpse of armed men standing in the other chamber, and then gave their attention to the boy who had entered with a basket.

The lad still had his stocking cap drawn down over his ears, and the collar of his jacket turned up about his throat.

“What have you got?” demanded Speake. “If it’s grub, set it down. We was jest wonderin’ if your outfit was calculatin’ on starvin’ us to death.”

The boy’s actions were peculiar, to say the least. Laying a finger on his lips, he bent his ear to the edge of the door and listened; then, turning around, he jerked off his stocking cap.

“Bob,” he whispered excitedly, “don’t you know me?”

Bob gazed at the lad’s handsome face like one stupefied.

“Ysabel!” he murmured; “Ysabel Sixty!”

“Jupiter!” gasped Speake.

“Great guns!” muttered Dick.

CHAPTER XXV.
UNEXPECTED LOYALTY.

The astonishment of all three of the prisoners was overwhelming. Ysabel Sixty, the daughter of Captain Jim Sixty, the captured filibuster, there aboard the Grampus! She was so artfully disguised, too, that the prisoners would never have recognized her had she not taken the pains to reveal her identity.

Ysabel set the basket down on the floor.

“Fingal and all the others, except Don Carlos, are eating,” said she, in a low voice. “The don has gone ashore to hunt for revolutionists. My uncle made me get the meal for him and his men, and then sent me here with something for you.”

“You are still a friend of ours, Ysabel?” whispered Bob.

“Always!” the girl breathed.

“Does your uncle, Abner Fingal, know that?”

“Of course not! Why, he doesn’t even know I am Ysabel Sixty!” She gave a low, sibilant laugh. “I have fooled him as well as the others.”

It hardly seemed possible that the girl could hide her identity from her uncle simply by donning male attire; and yet she looked vastly different in boy’s clothes.

“I’ll not be able to stay here long,” proceeded Ysabel, “so you had better let me do most of the talking. The North Star, Abner Fingal’s schooner, lay off Belize part of the day, yesterday. She had been repainted, renamed, and was flying the Cuban flag. No one recognized her as a filibuster’s boat. Fingal came ashore and had a talk with Don Carlos, and together they plotted to capture the submarine. And I also plotted,” said the girl. “That’s how I happen to be here now.”

“But how did you learn about the plot?” queried Bob breathlessly, “and how did you manage it?”

“You remember my old friend, Pedro? The man who used to sail on my father’s ship, the Dolphin?”

Bob nodded.

“Well, as it chanced, Pedro came north on the schooner with Abner Fingal. My uncle values Pedro highly because he was with my father on the brig, and it was from him that Pedro learned that the object of the schooner in going to Belize was to capture the submarine. Pedro was sent ashore at Belize to find four or five white men to help out the plot. He picked up three, and those were all he could get who, according to his ideas, were trustworthy. He called at the house in the evening, just before the schooner was to sail, and talked with me.

“When I learned that Fingal was trying to capture the submarine, and that Don Carlos was planning to help, I was wild to get word to you, and warn you. But this was impossible. You were not at the hotel, Pedro said, and the doctor would not admit any one to talk with Captain Nemo, junior. I would have gone to the American consul, but Pedro would not let me. He said that if I did such a thing I would get everybody into trouble, himself as well as my uncle. I cared little about Fingal, but I did care a good deal about Pedro. He has always been a true friend, and a great help, to me. If I couldn’t warn you, Bob, I made up my mind that I would sail with the schooner and do what I could to aid you in case Don Carlos’ snare proved successful.

“Pedro tried to argue me out of that, but I insisted. At last he went to a junk shop in town and bought a suit of boy’s clothes for me, and this stocking cap; then he cut off my hair”—the girl shook her head and set the short locks flying—“and I was soon changed into Manuel Ybarra, a small brother of Pedro’s. We went out to the schooner in the evening. Fingal was already aboard and waiting for us. After that we sailed south, and, in the first gray of morning, we hove to, and Fingal himself climbed to the masthead with a glass. He watched carefully along our back track, and when he came sliding down to the deck he said loudly, so all could hear, that Don Carlos had succeeded in luring the submarine away from Belize, and that now we must carry out our part of the program.

“Pedro and three other men were lined up on the deck, and each was given a revolver; then a small boat was put over and the four men got into the boat. Just as they were about to cast off, I jumped in.

“Fingal swore and ordered me back, but Pedro begged so hard for his ‘little brother’ that I was allowed to stay. As soon as we had cast off from her side, the schooner bore away with all sail set; then our boat was rowed off over the water and the oars were tossed into the sea.

“‘We’re shipwrecked sailors,’ said Fingal, with a laugh. ‘Play the part, every man of you! The submarine will pick us up, an’ then we’ll capture her.’

“My heart turned sick at that, for not until then did I understand what the plan was. I hoped that you would not see us and pick us up; but then, Don Carlos was on the submarine, and it was certain that he would be on the watch for us. You know what happened after that. Didn’t you see me motioning to you to keep away when you were in the conning tower?”

“I saw you motioning, Ysabel,” said Bob, “but hadn’t the least idea what you meant. You were well disguised, and that stocking cap is just the thing. But be careful! If Abner Fingal should discover who you really are——”

“He won’t,” she answered. “Pedro is looking after me. I am supposed to be his brother, you know.”

“Do you think you can help us recapture the Grampus?”

“That’s what I want to do.”

“Will Pedro help you?”

She was doubtful.

“Pedro won’t do anything to get me into trouble, but whether he would help or not I don’t know. You see, Bob, Pedro thought a lot of my father, and he doesn’t feel very kindly toward you and your friends. With me it’s different. My father was never good to me, but was always beating me and forcing me to tell lies to help out his plans. But,” she added, catching herself up, “we must only talk about important things. Pedro is on guard at the door, eating his meal with a revolver on his knee. He will let me stay in here as long as I like, but if Fingal should suspect anything——”

The girl winced and shrugged her shoulders.

“You’d better go now, Ysabel,” said Bob. “If Fingal happened to find out who you are, at this time, it would be impossible for you to do anything for us.”

“I’d better tell you all I can, that’s of importance, while I’m here,” insisted the girl, pulling her cap down over her ears. “I may not have so good a chance as this again.”

“Where are we, Ysabel?” put in Dick.

“Tied up to an old landing, halfway between the mouth of the Izaral and the place where the Purgatoire flows into the stream.”

“Are there any soldiers near here?”

“There are, unless General Pitou has captured the fort. If the rebels have won that, then they’re probably all down at the mouth of the river.”

“Where’s General Mendez?”

“Somewhere near the Purgatoire. He’s coming down the river as fast as he can, hoping to fight with the rebels before they can get to the fort.”

“Why did Don Carlos go ashore?”

“To find General Pitou. If the general thinks it safe, he may come back with Don Carlos.”

“When does Don Carlos expect to get back here?” put in Bob.

“That depends on how far away the rebels are. He may return soon, and he may not return until nearly night.”

“About what time is it?”

“Nearly noon. Tell me, Bob, how you think I can help you! I’m not nearly so clever as you are, and you might be able to think of something I could do.”

Bob was thoughtful for a moment.

“Where are Gaines and Clackett?” he asked at last.

“They are shut up in the torpedo room. Fingal intends to keep them shut up all the time they are not needed for running the boat.”

“By George!” exclaimed Bob.

“What now?” whispered Dick.

“Why, if necessary, one of those fellows could shoot the other out through the torpedo tube! I got out that way once, you remember, in Atlantic City, and the Grampus was submerged, at that. Here she’s on the surface, and the mouth of the tube isn’t more than two feet under water!”

“What good would it do for one o’ them fellers to be shot out of the boat?” queried Speake. “He’d only find himself in the hands of those outside.”

“Well, Speake, if we got a chance to leave here and run the revolutionists off the boat, one of the men from the torpedo room would prove a big help to us. With Don Carlos gone, there are only Fingal, Pedro, and two more against us—and perhaps Ysabel could keep Pedro from taking a very active part in the fighting.”

“But there are the guns—consarn ’em!” growled Dick. “What could we do against four, or even three, armed men? They could riddle us before we got close enough to use our fists.”

“If I could take the cartridges out of the revolvers,” said Ysabel, “wouldn’t that help?”

“How could you do that?” queried Bob eagerly. “Aren’t the weapons in the men’s pockets?”

“There were only four revolvers,” went on the girl, “and one of the men gave his to Don Carlos. That leaves only three on the boat. Pedro has one, Fingal has one, and one of the other men has one. If I——”

Just at this point the door opened and the swarthy face of Pedro was thrust in.

“Mujercita!” he called softly.

The girl, with one last, quick look at Bob, hastened from the room. The door was closed and locked, and the prisoners could hear the hoarse voice of Fingal rumbling through the periscope room. Bob glided to the door and listened. A moment later he drew a long breath of relief and turned away.

“I was afraid he might discover her,” said he, “but he only came down to borrow some tobacco of Pedro.”

“About all we can do is to wait,” murmured Speake.

“That’s all,” said Dick; “wait for something to happen and hope for the best.”

“And let’s not forget, while we’re waiting,” added Bob, “that we’ve got one loyal friend among our captors—and she’s as brave as she is loyal.”

CHAPTER XXVI.
A FAVORABLE OPPORTUNITY.

The three prisoners were hungry and they lost no time in making an attack on the basket. While they ate they discussed the situation in whispers.

“Did Fingal come down the ladder from the conning tower, mate?” asked Dick.

“I thought so,” was the reply, “from the noise he made.”

“Did he go back to the deck?”

“I didn’t wait to listen.”

“If we could git that gang separated,” said Speake, “we could lay ’em out one at a time—an’ I guess the revolvers wouldn’t cut much figure.”

“That would be fine, Speake,” returned Dick, “but Fingal and his gang are not doing the things we want ’em to.”

“If we’re to accomplish anything toward recapturing the submarine,” chimed in Bob, “we’ll have to do it before Don Carlos gets back. He may bring a gang of soldiers with him. Besides, don’t forget what’s to happen to us at nightfall in case we don’t agree to join the revolutionists.”

“I’m not pinin’ to have my name wiped off the articles,” said Speake, with a wry grimace. “For one, I’d rather take long chances tryin’ to run the rebels off the boat. It’s a heap more comfortin’ to get done up that way than by lettin’ Fingal an’ Pitou an’ this Don Carlos do what they please without never liftin’ a hand to help ourselves.”

“I can’t see anything comforting in that proposition, either way,” observed Dick. “All I hope is, just now, that Ysabel will be careful, and that Pedro will look after her. Everything depends on her.”

“She’s a brick!” murmured Bob admiringly.

“And she’s doing all this for you, Bob, you know!”

“It’s for all of us!” declared Bob.

“Don’t you never think it,” said Speake. “She’s runnin’ a lot o’ risks, an’ I wouldn’t never have thought a girl could have the grit. But Bob Steele was in danger! That was enough for her to know.”

“I wonder how Carl came out with his serenade?” remarked Dick. “Ysabel wasn’t at the house, and it’s a fair guess that Carl got into trouble.”

Carl certainly had tumbled into difficulties—but it was not because he had not found any one at home.

“What do you suppose Carl is thinkin’ about us?” said Speake.

“Our disappearance will bother a good many people,” answered Bob.

Speake’s conscience troubled him.

“I feel like an ornery cur,” said he, “over the way Gaines an’ Clackett an’ me acted! Ye remember how mad us three was at Cassidy when he got in such a takin’ because Bob was put in charge o’ the Grampus? Well, to my notion, we ain’t acted any better than Cassidy did.”

“You ought to feel cut up,” reproved Dick. “The only way you can square yourself, Speake, is by doing a lot to help recapture the ship.”

“Jest give me the chance,” answered Speake, his eyes flashing, “an’ I’ll show you what I can do.”

The boys finished the food, took a drink all around from the bottle of cold coffee that Ysabel had put in the basket, and then continued their wait for something to happen. They felt better physically, even if they were not more hopeful.

Dick lay back on one of the cots and went to sleep; Speake pulled his hat down over his eyes and leaned against the forward bulkhead; Bob, flat on his back on the other cot, stared upward at the rounded deck, wishing that he could poke a hole through the steel plates and so gain freedom for himself and his friends.

Speake dozed a little. Something white, poked through one of the ventilator holes above his head, floated downward and landed on his knee. He stared at it drowsily, then brushed at it mechanically with one hand. Suddenly he realized that the falling of a scrap of white paper was rather a peculiar circumstance, and snatched it off the floor.

“Bob!” he called.

“What is it?” returned Bob, rising on his elbow and directing his gaze at Speake.

“This dropped down on me!” Speake held up the paper.

Bob was off the cot in a flash and standing at Speake’s side. “When?” he whispered.

“Just now.”

“It was pushed through one of the ventilator openings. It’s a note—from Ysabel.”

He passed to Dick’s side and shook him into wakefulness.

“What’s the row?” inquired Dick.

“A note from Ysabel, pushed in to us through one of the holes in the forward bulkhead.”

“From her?” muttered Dick, smothering his excitement. “Read it! Perhaps she’s captured the revolvers.”

The note was written in pencil on a ragged scrap of paper. Bob, in a guarded voice, read it aloud:

“‘Pedro is asleep at the door. Fingal has gone off on the river bank. The two others are playing cards on the deck. I have Pedro’s revolver and have unlocked the door. Now is the time! Capture Pedro and tie him—but don’t hurt him. Be quiet—if he makes an outcry all is lost. Hurry!’”

Speake pulled off his coat.

“This is bully!” he whispered. “Now we’ve got a chance.”

“It’s an opportunity I wasn’t expecting,” said Bob, pulling off his shoes carefully. “In our stocking feet, fellows! We must not make any noise. While Speake and I are binding Pedro, Dick, you go down and let Gaines and Clackett out of the torpedo room. If we work this right we may be able to get away from here and down the river.”

All three of the prisoners were excited, as well they might be. An opportunity offered to save themselves and the boat—success or failure hanging on their quickness and silence.

Advancing to the door, Bob laid his hand on the knob. Slowly he twisted the catch out of its socket, and then inch by inch forced the door open.

Yet, slight though the noise was that accompanied the click of the catch, Pedro heard it. With a startled exclamation he leaped to his feet.

Bob and Speake sprang at him, Bob catching his wrists and Speake throwing an arm about his throat and clapping a hand over his lips.

The odds were against Pedro, and he was helpless; yet, for all that, he managed to squirm about and make considerable noise.

There was a drone of voices overhead, coming down the open hatch. The voices suddenly ceased, and some one was heard floundering over the deck to the top of the tower.

The electric light was not burning in the periscope room, and the only light that entered the chamber came from the hatch. Any one looking downward would not have been able to see anything distinctly except in the immediate vicinity of the bottom of the ladder. Bob, Speake, and Pedro, as it chanced, were close to the locker.

“Anythin’ wrong down there, greaser!” called a husky voice.

“No, señor,” answered Bob, trying to imitate the rough voice of the Mexican.

“Thought I heard you movin’ around,” said the man above, turning away from the top of the tower.

Pedro was forced down on the locker, and Ysabel glided forward with a piece of rope for bonds and a piece of cloth for a gag. Pedro turned his wild eyes on the girl with startled inquiry and suspicion.

“You will not be hurt, Pedro!” whispered the girl; “don’t make a noise—please.”

She followed this with some soft words in Spanish. But Pedro, loyal though he undoubtedly was to the girl, continued to struggle. Bob and Speake, however, managed to get him bound and gagged.

“This is only the beginning, Bob Steele,” breathed Ysabel, her cheeks flushed with excitement and her eyes bright as stars. “Here is Pedro’s revolver—take it.”

Bob took the weapon and thrust it in his pocket.

“We can’t use firearms,” he whispered, “for they make too much noise. Our hope lies in capturing our enemies one at a time, then cutting the cables and dropping down the river. If possible, we must do this before Fingal gets back.”

“Where did Dick go?” asked the girl.

“To release Gaines and Clackett. The torpedo-room door is fastened by a bolt on the outside, so he’ll have no trouble in getting them out. We’ll wait till they come before making our next move.”

Bob had hardly finished speaking before Dick came in through the forward door of the room. Clackett followed him—but Gaines was not along.

Bob lifted a warning finger as Dick was about to speak, pointed upward toward the deck and then motioned for Dick and Clackett to come closer.

“Where is Gaines?” he whispered.

“He got out through the torpedo tube, half an hour ago,” said Dick.

Bob, as will be remembered, had already thought of this maneuver. But it was unfortunate that Gaines had put it into effect, in view of what was transpiring.

“What was Gaines going to do?” asked Bob of Clackett.

“He reckoned he’d go up the river an’ try an’ find General Mendez,” replied Clackett. “We sort o’ figgered it out between us that some of the soldiers under Mendez could come here and capture the boat and release the rest of us.”

Here was an awkward situation, and Bob wrinkled his brows over it.

They could not leave without Gaines. He was taking chances and doing his best to be of service to his comrades, and dropping down the river without him was not to be thought of.

“What shall we do now?” asked Dick.

“Keep on with our plan,” answered Bob. “There are two of the scoundrels playing cards on deck. We must get them as safely as we have got Pedro.”

“Shall we make a racket and bring them down?”

“They’ll both come, if we do that. We can capture them with less noise if they come one at a time.”

Ysabel started forward.

“I’ll go up the ladder,” said she, “and say that Pedro wants one of them. After you capture him, I’ll go up after the other.”

“Good!” exclaimed Bob. “Get ropes, boys,” he added to the others, “and stand ready for some swift and noiseless work.”

Ysabel glided to the ladder. Before she could mount, however, some one was heard climbing over the top of the conning tower. As those below looked upward, a pair of booted feet swung down.

“Fingal!” gasped Ysabel, drawing away fearfully.

Bob motioned her out of the room. “Stand ready for him,” he whispered, “as he reaches the bottom of the ladder. The smallest mistake now means failure. Ready!!”

Scarcely breathing, Bob, Dick, Speake, and Clackett stood waiting for the burly ruffian who, jointly with Don Carlos, was responsible for all their troubles.

CHAPTER XXVII.
EXCITING WORK.

Fingal was a big fellow, and Bob remembered with a shudder the crushing embrace of his huge arms at the time the crew of the submarine were routed. But Bob, with so many to help him, was not worrying over the outcome. What caused him the most concern was the thought that, in spite of their precautions, there would be noise enough to alarm the two men who were playing cards.

Fingal came down the ladder slowly. Fortunately for those below he kept his gaze upward as he descended. When he reached the foot of the ladder his face was toward the after bulkhead of the periscope room, and those who were waiting were behind.

At a signal from Bob the attack was made. Bob himself sprang at Fingal’s throat and caught his bull-like neck in a strangling grip. Like a huge animal, Fingal pushed himself around. Speake had one of his arms and Dick the other. Clackett, bending down caught his feet and jerked them off the floor.

Fighting furiously, Fingal was thus thrown bodily into the hands and arms of Bob, Dick, and Speake. They were not expecting to receive the heavy weight, and the huge body crashed to the floor. Bob’s grip about Fingal’s throat was wrenched loose, and a half-strangled bellow of fury went up from the desperate scoundrel.

Feet stamped the deck. There was no need of a demand from those above as to what was going on, for both the men knew that there was trouble. Fingal would not have bellowed in that fashion if there had not been.

“Never mind the noise, now,” panted Bob. “We’re in for it, and we must be quick.”

One of the other men already had his feet on the ladder. Leaving Dick, Speake, and Clackett to handle Fingal, Bob jumped up the ladder, caught the descending feet, and flung his whole weight on them.

As a result, the man’s hands were torn from the iron rungs, and he and Bob tumbled in a heap on the floor of the periscope room.

Bob came off better than his antagonist, for the latter struck his head against the steering wheel, doubled himself up in a ball, then flung out his limbs convulsively and lay silent and still.

“Look after both of them, fellows!” cried Bob. “I’m going after the other one.”

The second of the two men who had been on the deck was showing more wariness than his companion had done. The abrupt disappearance of his comrade from the top of the ladder had filled him with doubts, and when he saw Bob rushing upward, he must have gained the idea that all the others were captured. Yet, be that as it may, he whirled from the conning tower in a panic and leaped off the boat.

When Bob lifted his head clear of the hatch, a sharp report echoed out, and a bullet struck the sloping side of the conning tower and glanced off into the river.

The ruffian was standing on the planks that had formed the old landing. Undeterred by the shot, Bob threw himself out of the tower, gained the rickety wharf at a jump, and raced after the man.

The latter retreated to the bank, turned there, and assayed another shot. A metallic click echoed out, but no report. Again and again the trigger fell uselessly.

With an oath, the fellow hurled the weapon at Bob, faced about, and dashed into the timber.

Bob gave pursuit. Had it not been that Gaines was missing from the boat’s complement, Bob would not have chased the fugitive; but Gaines’ absence made it necessary for the submarine to remain at the landing until he should return, and if this man got away he would probably spread the news of what had happened and cause a detachment of the revolutionists to charge the boat.

Bob, it will be remembered, was in his stocking feet. The ground over which he was running was covered with sharp stones, and before he had gone a hundred yards he realized that he would have to give up the pursuit.

Turning back, he regained the landing, leaped to the deck of the submarine, and bent over the hatch.

“How are you, down there?” he called.

“Finer’n silk!” came the jubilant voice of Speake. “We’ve got lashings on both men. Where’s the other chap?”

“He jumped ashore and got away. Come up here, Dick, you and Clackett. One of you bring a hatchet. Let Ysabel watch the prisoners, and you, Speake, go below and see if everything is in shape for a quick departure.”

“Goin’ to leave without Gaines, Bob?” asked Clackett.

“Not unless we have to. We’re going to hang out here until the last moment.”

Dick and Clackett presently showed themselves on deck. Bob had already discovered that the Grampus was moored to two trees with a couple of cables at the bow and stern. The boat was pointed upstream.

“Cast off the stern cable, Clackett,” ordered Bob, “and throw it aboard. One rope is enough to hold us. Go out on the bow, Dick,” he added, “and sit there with the hatchet. If you get an order to cut the cable, don’t lose any time in carrying it out.”

“Aye, aye, mate!” replied Dick.

Clackett went ashore and unfastened the rear cable from the tree. Bob drew it in, coiled it, and dropped it down the hatch.

“What am I to do now, Bob?” shouted Clackett.

“Go up the bank and a little way into the woods,” answered Bob. “Hide yourself and watch for soldiers. If you hear or see any, rush this way and give the alarm to Dick. He’ll cut the cable, and then the two of you dodge below as quick as the nation will let you, the last one down closing the hatch after him. Understand?”

“That’s plain enough,” said Clackett, climbing the bank and vanishing in the timber.

Bob went down into the periscope room and found Ysabel sitting on one of the stools and keeping watch of the prisoners.

Fingal, his great arms twisting fiercely against the ropes and his eyes glaring, lay on the floor. Near him was the other prisoner. The latter had recovered from the blow that had stunned him, and, to judge from his humble appearance, his warlike disposition was entirely gone.

“What shall we do with Pedro, Bob?” asked Ysabel anxiously.

“Does he want to go back with us to Belize? Ask him.”

“If he did that, they would probably arrest him for what he has done,” said the girl.

She put the question, however, and Pedro shook his, head.

“Ask him if he wants us to put him ashore here.”

Pedro nodded as soon as Ysabel had translated the words into Spanish.

“Tell him we’ll do that before we leave,” said Bob, “but that we can’t trust him ashore until we are ready to go.”

Pedro tried to talk in response to this, and Bob removed the gag for a moment. Turning his face toward Ysabel, Pedro spoke rapidly for a few moments. Ysabel’s face became very serious as she listened.

“What is it?” inquired Bob.

“He says that the Grampus will never be able to leave the river,” answered the girl; “that the fort is in the hands of the rebels, and that they are planting mines in the river, so close to the bottom that the submarine will strike them if she submerges. If she floats on the surface, then the guns of the fort will sink her.”

There was terror in the girl’s face as she repeated Pedro’s words. Here was an unlooked-for difficulty, and one that gave Bob the utmost concern.

“Just ask him, Ysabel,” said he, “why the rebels planted mines in the river when they knew the submarine was in the hands of their friends? Pedro’s story sounds improbable, to me. If it comes to that, we passed the mouth of the river under water, and no one in the fort or the town saw us.”

Ysabel talked for a few moments more with Pedro.

“He says,” the girl reported finally, “that Don Carlos saw the flag of the rebels flying from the fort by means of the periscope when we ascended the stream; but the don knew there were some submarine mines in Port Livingstone, and that he was going to have the soldiers plant them. He was afraid Fingal might try to run away with the Grampus, and intended to pen her in the river.”

“Then even these revolutionists can’t trust each other!” exclaimed Bob. “With such a lack of confidence as that, if it extends to the rank and file, the insurrection will prove a farce. Just——”

At that moment some one landed heavily on the deck of the submarine. Bob straightened erect and stepped to the foot of the ladder. Looking up, he saw Clackett gazing down.

“There are two men comin’, Bob!” reported Clackett. “One of em’s Don Carlos, an’ the other wears a red coat with shoulder straps and has a sword.”

“Some officer, I suppose,” said Bob. “Come down here, quick, Clackett, and tell Dick to follow you, but not to cut the cable. Speake!” he called through one of the tubes.

“What is it?” came back the voice of Speake.

“Up here with you! More work.”

Speake, tumbling up from below, and Dick and Clackett, dropping down from above, reached the periscope room at about the same time. Bob had been replacing the gag between Pedro’s lips.

“Drag the prisoners into the room where they were keeping us,” said Bob. “There’s going to be more lively work here, and we’ve got to clear decks for action.”

While Speake, Clackett, and Dick fell to with a will, half dragging and half carrying the prisoners into the steel chamber off the periscope room, Bob kept close to the periscope and watched the bank above the landing.

Then, just as his comrades finished their work and returned to his side, he gave vent to an exclamation and whirled away from the periscope table.

“Don Carlos is coming,” he whispered, “and General Pitou is with him! Now, at one stroke, we can lay the rebel general by the heels and nip this revolution in the bud. Steady, now! Not a whisper, mind. There are two of them, and we must capture both.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.
CAPTURING THE GENERAL.

Bob, on the occasion of his former visit to the River Izaral, had caught a fleeting glimpse of General Pitou. Speake, who had been a prisoner in the general’s hands for a brief time, was more familiar with his appearance. Gliding to the periscope table, Speake took a look for himself.

“You’re right, Bob,” he whispered, “it’s the old villain himself.”

“I should think he was takin’ chances coming so far from camp,” remarked Clackett, “and right in the direction of General Mendez and his troops.”

“Perhaps,” chuckled Dick, “he was expecting to drop down the river in the submarine! Let’s not disappoint him, mates. He’ll go down, but not with the people he intended to have as companions.”

A deep silence reigned in the periscope room. Voices were heard on the landing, and then a clattering rattle as the general landed on the deck. Don Carlos followed more lightly, and stepped to the conning tower.

“Fingal!” called Don Carlos. “The general is here, and he feels that the prisoners must be dealt with in a summary manner at once. He doesn’t think it advisable to wait until nightfall. Better bring them up.”

Here, in a moment, a situation was developed which threatened Bob’s plan for entrapping Don Carlos and Pitou. The don and the general were not intending to come into the boat, but to wait on the deck while the prisoners were brought up.

“I say, below there!” called Don Carlos, in a louder voice. “Wake up, you! Where’s Fingal?”

“Ahoy, don!” bellowed Bob, trying his utmost to imitate the raucous tones of Fingal’s voice. “Bring the general down a minute!”

Bob’s imitation was fairly good, but not good enough to deceive the keen ears of Don Carlos. With a yell of alarm, the don sprang ashore.

“This way, general!” he shouted; “hurry! There’s something wrong here.”

There followed a crash, a rattling slide of some object over the sloping deck of the boat, then a shrill volley of oaths.

Bob rushed up the ladder and looked out of the hatch.

The general was a little man, and he carried a prodigious sword and wore a pair of immense spurs on his cavalry boots. As near as Bob could judge, from what he saw, the general had tried to leap ashore and his spurs had caught in one of the guy ropes. Instead, therefore, of leaping, he fell in a heap, and had clattered and banged along the deck until he was caught and held between the side of the boat and a pile that formed part of the wharf.

The general was seeking in vain to extricate himself from his difficulties. Every time he tried to get up, his boots would slip on the rounded plates, and he would sit down on the sharp points of his spurs.

The air was fairly blue in his immediate vicinity, and a perfect bedlam of epithets went up from him. Don Carlos, seeing Bob in the top of the tower, guessed rightly that the prisoners had released themselves in some manner. The don did not return to assist the general, but danced about on the bank, tossing his arms frantically and shouting for him to make haste.

The general was more than anxious to oblige, but fate was against anything like haste. The sharp points of his spurs galled him, and when his spurs ceased from troubling, his long sword got between his legs and tripped him.

Bob had abundant time to slide over the top of the conning tower, grab the general by the collar of his red coat, and pull him erect on the ridgelike spine of the deck.

With a howl of wrath, Pitou backed up against the conning tower, drew his sword, threw his left arm over his face, and proceeded savagely to carve slices out of the air.

The situation was serious, from several points of view, but Bob, for all that, could hardly repress a laugh.

Then, to crown the ignominy that was being heaped upon the general, Speake suddenly hoisted himself above the top of the tower, noted the situation, reached out calmly and passed his arms about the general’s body under the shoulders.

The next moment Bob had a glimpse of a red coat, a pair of cavalry boots, and flashing spurs being elevated and dragged down into the maw of the tower.

It was a tragic disappearance—tragic for the general—for, in this inglorious manner, he was leaving the scene of his military exploits.

As soon as Bob got below he found his friends enjoying the general as much as he had done. Clackett had taken his sword, Speake had pulled off his boots, and Dick was sitting on the captive’s breast, pinning him to the floor while he affixed cords to his wrists and ankles.

“Fer goodness’ sake,” cried Speake, “get somethin’ between his jaws! He’s chatterin’ more’n a cage o’ monkeys.”

Ysabel stepped forward with a bandage, and the general was soon silent. Dick finished by dragging him into the prison chamber and dropping him down beside Fingal.

“Oh, what a fine general it is!” laughed Dick. “And he was trying to make himself dictator of the country! I wonder what sort of a population they have here, to let a little wasp like that go on the warpath and make trouble!”

“He is a little wretch!” exclaimed Ysabel, with flashing eyes.

“And that’s the military phenomenon your uncle, Abner Fingal, was trying to make you marry!” exclaimed Dick, suddenly recalling a half-forgotten episode in Ysabel’s life.

The girl flushed crimson. “Never!” she breathed fiercely.

“If it hadn’t been for his spurs and his sword,” said Bob, “he would have been able to get away. But we’re strangely reckless, friends,” he added, “to amuse ourselves with the general when we are in such desperate plight. We can’t leave here until Gaines gets back, and not only has one of Fingal’s men escaped us, but Don Carlos has likewise got away. Both will carry the news of what we have done to the camp of the rebels—and you can imagine what will happen when the rebels hear that we have got their general below decks. We’ll have the entire army about our ears—and that won’t do; at least, not until we have Gaines with us. After that, we can close the hatch, sink below the surface and glide downstream without——”

Bob paused. He suddenly remembered what Pedro had said about the submarine mines at the mouth of the river.

“We may have a hard time getting out of the river,” he continued thoughtfully. “Pedro told Ysabel that the rebels had planted mines in the river bed, close to the fort, and that they were so low in the water we would probably strike them if we tried to pass the fort submerged. Again, if we attempt to gain the gulf by keeping on the surface of the river, the cannon in the fort will bombard us.”

“A plague on their mines and their cannon!” cried Dick recklessly. “We’ll run past the fort. If the soldiers are all as able as their general, they couldn’t hit us with grape and canister.”

“Well, that’s a bridge for us to cross at a later time,” said Bob. “Just at present we have Gaines to think about. He ought to have got back by this time. Clackett, go back to your post in the woods and keep a sharp watch for soldiers. We’ll surely have a visit from them now. Up on deck with your hatchet, Dick, and stand ready to cut the cable at the first sign of an attack.”

“Aye, aye!” responded Dick, picking up the hatchet. “I think we could capture the whole rebel army if it came our way.”

“We’ve had one experience with the rebel army, Dick,” said Bob, “and it was far from pleasant. Let’s not repeat the experience. Climb for the deck, and be——”

Events were happening for the young motorist and his chums that day! They were coming like the rapid reports of a Gatling gun, and hardly was one issue met and vanquished before another was raised.

Dick and Clackett were on their way up the ladder when a rattle of musketry reached the ears of those in the submarine. It came from the direction of the bank, and was followed by loud cries and a tremendous thrashing among the bushes.

“Hurry!” cried Bob. “Don Carlos must have met a detachment of Pitou’s army and have headed them this way! We can’t wait any longer for Gaines! Up with you and cut the cable!”

Clackett stepped off the ladder to make room for Bob, who sprang to follow Dick aloft.

When Dick reached the deck, he gave a shout of astonishment. “Hurry up!” he called.

When Bob was able to see what was going on, he was as greatly surprised as Dick had been.

Coming down the bank, and traveling as fast as his long legs could carry him, was Gaines. He was clad only in shirt and trousers, and his bare feet were bleeding from their contact with the sharp stones. Unmindful of this trying discomfort, he rushed down the bank with flying leaps, while bushes crackled behind him and little wreaths of smoke rose upward, marking the discharge of firearms.

Bob rushed along the deck and caught the hatchet out of his chum’s hand.

“Go to the engine room, Dick,” said he quickly, “and take charge of the motor. Send Clackett to the tank room. Let Speake take the wheel until I come. Submerge when I give the word, and do it quick!”

It was no time for hesitation, and Ferral darted back down the hatch.

CHAPTER XXIX.
OFF FOR THE GULF.

It was easily seen that Gaines was nearly spent. His breath tore through his lips in gasps, and when he reached the edge of the wharf, he fell there, unable to roll over the edge and drop down on the deck of the Grampus.

Out of the bushes at the top of the bank came the foremost of the pursuing soldiers. Fortunately for Bob and Gaines, they were armed with muzzle-loaders, and were frantically getting another charge into the barrels.

Dropping the hatchet, Bob leaped to the wharf, caught Gaines, and pulled him down on the deck; then, springing back, he picked up the hatchet and severed the cable with a blow.

The bow of the submarine caught the current, swung farther out into the stream, then whirled around and started away. This placed the conning tower between the soldiers and Bob and Gaines, and several bullets hit the tower and glanced singing into the air.

“You’re all right, Gaines,” said Bob, bending over the motorist. “You got out of that fix——”

“By the skin of my teeth!” panted Gaines. “Oh, what a run! I never ran so fast, and so far, and over so many stones and briers, before in my life. I thought, a dozen times, they had me.”

“Hard luck that you should have run into the rebels when you were looking for the soldiers of General Mendez.”

“Rebels?” cried Gaines. “Why, Bob, those fellows weren’t rebels. They were the loyalist soldiers!”

“The troops of General Mendez?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” queried Bob angrily, “why were they chasing you, and shooting at you?”

“I give it up. They must have taken me for one of the rebels—possibly they thought I was General Pitou.”

“They couldn’t have thought that,” answered Bob. “The general is only about half your size.”

“Clackett told you why I got out through the torpedo tube?”

“Yes. But how did you ever do it without being seen by Fingal and his men?”

“I was shot along upstream, and straight into the bank. Fingal was sitting on the deck at the time, and the sudden heave of the forward end of the boat drew his attention, but he didn’t see me. As soon as I could I got up the bank, but the compressed air had made me dizzy, and I was obliged to rest before I could travel. After I got started I found that I couldn’t go fast on account of my bare feet. I must have been about a mile away before I saw any soldiers. There was a straggling column of them, and they appeared to be the vanguard of an advancing army. They were Mendez’s men, and I was pleased a lot, because I was sure I could get them to go back with me and help recapture the submarine.

“When I started toward them, though, they began to shoot and to run toward me. I couldn’t stop and explain, for I wasn’t at all sure that my explanation would be accepted. So all I could do was turn and see how quick I could get back over the ground. That’s about all, Bob. But how did you get clear? It was a surprise to see you on the boat. I was expecting to be met by Fingal and his gang.”

“That’s too much to tell just now, Gaines. We’re all free, however, and all together once more. We have been waiting for you.”

“What became of Fingal?”

“He’s a prisoner.”

“Good! Any more prisoners?”

“General Pitou——”

“General Pitou!”

“Yes; and one of Fingal’s men, and another who is more a friend of Ysabel Sixty’s than he is of Fingal’s.”

“What about Ysabel Sixty?”

“She’s below, too.”

“Where did she come from?”

“She was one of those we took out of that yawl. We all thought she was a boy until she told us who she was. We owe our escape to her.”

While sitting on the deck, Gaines had been slowly recovering his strength. He was still muttering dazedly over Bob’s amazing disclosures, when Speake showed himself at the hatch.

“You fellows better come below!” he called “Dick said you wanted the boat submerged, Bob, an’ I guess that the quicker we do it the better. There’s an outfit of black soldiers, dead ahead, waiting for us.”

Bob whirled around and allowed his eyes to follow the direction of Speake’s pointing finger.

On a shelflike projection of the high bank, perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead, was a group of rebels. They could be seen only indistinctly, but it was apparent from their actions that they were waiting for the Grampus to come within good range.

“Climb for the hatch, Gaines!” ordered Bob. “We’ve got to get below the surface. If we stay out here, while we’re passing those soldiers, they’ll shoot us off the deck.”

Gaines got to his feet and walked painfully to the tower. After he had climbed in, and vanished, Bob followed, closing the hatch behind him.

“Fill the ballast tanks, Clackett!” called Bob, through the tank-room tube. “About ten feet will do, just so the periscope ball is awash.”

A moment more and the submarine began to settle downward.

“What are you going to do when we get near the fort, Bob?” asked Speake.

“I don’t believe the rebels have had time to plant any submarine mines,” said Bob. “It takes some time to do that, and not enough time has elapsed since Don Carlos reached the fort and reported that the submarine had been captured. We’ll pass the fort under water, and chance the mines. Better that than running on the surface and being bombarded.”

Patter, patter came a ringing hail on the deck.

“Ah!” cried Gaines; “the soldiers are taking a whack at us!” He laughed derisively. “I guess we can stand as much of that as they want to give us. Their lead slides from the deck like water off a duck’s back.”

Smash!

“Great guns!” cried Bob. “What was that? Something broke.”

“The periscope ball!” gasped Speake. “They’ve put the periscope out of commission. Empty the tanks!” he yelled into the tank-room tube.

The periscope table reflected nothing of the treacherous channel along which the current and the propeller were carrying the Grampus at a terrific pace. It was necessary to come to the surface as quickly as possible and use the conning-tower lunettes.

“Reverse your engine, Dick!” cried Bob to the motor room. “Full speed astern!”

The engine was instantly reversed, but not until the submarine had run into some obstruction, halting her with a jar that threw all her passengers off their feet.

For a moment the silence was broken only by the hum of the fiercely working cylinders, and the splash and bubble of the current as it met the obstruction of the huge steel shell.

“Cut out the turbines!” yelled Bob; “empty the tanks by compressed air. Full speed astern, Dick! Every ounce of power now!”

“What’s happened, do you think, Bob?” asked Ysabel, who had been sitting on the locker in the periscope room, watching eagerly all that had taken place.

“The river winds about a good deal, Ysabel,” Bob answered, “and we have probably run into the bank. When the periscope went out of commission it prevented us from keeping track of our course.” “Ah!” he added, noticing that the propeller was dragging them against the current and away from the bank, and that they were rising toward the surface. “We’ll do, now.”

“But we can’t pass them cannon on the surface,” observed Speake.

“There’s nothing else for it, Speake,” answered Bob, “but a dash straight for the gulf. We’ll have to keep to the surface, and if the rebels are able to aim straight, they’re going to give us a lively time.”

Bob relieved Speake in the conning tower. With his eyes against the lunettes, he kept keen watch ahead as turn after turn of the river unfolded before the racing boat.

At last they came close to a bend on the opposite side of which Bob knew there was a straightway stretch of water leading to the gulf.

He signaled the motor room for full speed astern once more, then slowed down until the backward pull of the propeller just balanced the rush of the current, the Grampus hanging stationary in midstream.

“Gaines,” called Bob, “are you well enough to take the engine? I want Dick up here with me.”

“Sure,” answered Gaines.

“Then go down and send him up.”

Dick reached the periscope room in a few moments.

“Dick,” said Bob, “our periscope is out of commission and we’ve got to pass the fort on the surface of the river. We could wait until night. That would give the rebels less of a chance at us, but it would also make our dash for the gulf more dangerous. The daylight has advantages as well as disadvantages, and so has the night. What do you say?”

“I’m for running their bally old fort,” answered Dick. “We’ll go so fast they can’t hit us.”

“Get the Stars and Stripes out of the locker, Dick,” said Bob. “We’ll haul it up to the staff as we pass and see if it commands their respect.”

Bob threw open the conning-tower hatch. The next moment, with his body half exposed above the hatch, he rang for full speed ahead.

As the Grampus started on the last leg of her dangerous voyage, Dick forced his way up beside his chum.

“Give me room now, Bob,” said he, between his teeth. “I’m going out on deck. If the flag commands any respect, it will be under my personal supervision.”

“Run up the flag and then get back below,” answered Bob, squeezing to one side of the tower so that Dick could pass.

Dick had kicked off his shoes and thrown aside his hat. Stripped for action, he bent the flag to the halyards as the submarine swept onward toward the threatening wall of the fort.

CHAPTER XXX.
RUNNING THE BATTERY.

Signs of activity showed around the fort as the Grampus rushed down toward it. Soldiers with rifles appeared on the walls, and the muzzles of the cannon were being slowly depressed in order to get the boat under a drop fire.

“They’re going to let us have it!” called Ferral, still working with the flag.

“Get the bunting up and return below!” ordered Bob.

“I suppose you think that you’re the only one who’s privileged to show himself while the rebels are shaking out their loads at us.”

“I don’t want you to expose yourself to needless danger, Dick,” said Bob.

“Danger!” Dick gave vent to a scornful laugh. “I don’t think the greasers can shoot. Let’s give ’em a chance at us and see if——”

Dick was interrupted by a hoarse boom!

Four cannon commanded the river side of the fort, and four the bay side. It was one of the guns on the river side that had spoken. A round shot plunged into the water on the port side of the boat, sending a jet of spray high into the air.

“I told you so!” yelled Dick, and shook his fist at the fort.

As he looked upward he saw three soldiers on the wall getting ready to shoot.

Two more cannon were fired, almost at the same time. The solid shot plunged into the water altogether too close to the boat for comfort.

“Up with the colors, Dick!” shouted Bob Steele; “let’s see if they dare fire on that flag!”

Dick hauled up the flag. As the gay little banner caught the breeze and opened out, a crack of rifles was heard from the fort.

The flag fluttered sharply.

“What do you think of that!” roared Dick, once more shaking his fist upward in the direction of the fort; “they’ve put a hole through the flag. Oh, strike me lucky! If it was the British flag they treated like that, an army would march through the country before the scoundrels were a month older.”

“They’re an irresponsible lot, anyhow,” said Bob. “Besides, we’ve got General Pitou below, and General Mendez will have an easy time of it when he gets here with his army. The uprising is as good as squelched. If anything——”

A perfect roar of guns echoed from the hill. With a crash the periscope mast went by the board, and the round shot caused the water to bubble and boil all around the submarine.

“They’ve got a grouch against that periscope, you see!” laughed Dick.

“We’ll have to have a new mast and ball as soon as we get back to Belize,” said Bob, as he guided the Grampus in a wide sweep around the headland to the left of the river mouth.

“A moment more,” said Dick, “and we’ll have the town between us and the fort. They’re slow at loading those old carronades. Those fellows’ hands must be all thumbs. If——”

Dick did not finish his sarcastic remarks. Just then there was a tremendous explosion just behind the submarine. A column of water arose high in the air, and, descending in a huge wave, carried the stern of the boat under and threw the bow high in the air. The water all around was a veritable caldron.

Frantic cries came from within the hull. Bob, owing to the almost vertical inclination of the steel hull, was hurled out of the conning tower and came into violent collision with Dick, who was clinging with a life-and-death grip to the flagstaff guys.

For a second the Grampus heaved and tossed on the waves, then righted herself and drove ahead.

Bob picked himself up and climbed hastily back into the conning tower. He was sore and bruised, but he realized that he could not leave the submarine to steer herself.

“What was that?” cried Dick, rising to his knees and lifting a pale face upward.

“It must have been a submarine mine,” answered Bob, in a voice that shivered perceptibly.

“A mine!” returned Dick. “But it exploded behind us! If we set it off, why didn’t it explode under us and blow us to smithereens?”

“It must have been a mine of the floating variety—a contact mine which was out of working order. We passed over it; and then, when we were safely out of the way, the pesky thing let go.”

Dick Ferral’s face grew even paler than it had been. As the dread import of Bob’s words dawned on him, he realized the close call the submarine and all her passengers had had.

“A narrow escape!” Dick muttered, getting slowly to his feet and rubbing his head, “I never want to get so close to kingdom come as that again! Why, Bob, we couldn’t have done that trick once in a thousand times.”

“We did it this time, anyhow,” answered Bob quietly. “A miss is as good as a mile, Dick. Better go below and explain to our friends.”

Dick staggered back and climbed into the tower, and his face was still white as he dropped off the ladder into the periscope room.

Clackett, Speake, and Ysabel crowded around him.

“What happened?” cried Clackett. “The old catamaran turned a regular handspring; then she stood on her propeller for about a minute and seemed to be thinking of going down to stay.”

Dick explained in a low voice what had happened, sitting on the locker and almost overcome by the narrow escape of the boat and her living cargo.

Speake began to shake; Clackett rubbed a dazed hand across his eyes; and Ysabel, dropping on one of the low seats, buried her face in her hands.

“Bob!” she gasped, looking up; “how can he stay up there in the conning tower after such a hairbreadth escape as that?”

“Bob?” returned Dick. “Why, he’s as calm as a day in June. He’s not even ruffled. He——”

“Listen!” called Clackett. “Bob’s saying something.”

“Speake!” came the voice from the conning tower.

“Aye, aye, sir!” answered Speake.

“Get to work on your electric stove, providing it wasn’t smashed by that somersault we turned, and see if we can’t have a piping-hot meal. Ysabel will help you.”

“That’s what he’s thinking of,” muttered Dick, “something to eat. Well, Bob Steele has got more nerve than I have.”

While Speake and Ysabel were getting supper ready, Dick and Clackett went into the prison room and looked at the men confined there.

They were all lying in an indiscriminate heap near the after bulkhead.

There was a chorus of wild gurgling behind the gags, and Dick and Clackett set to work and laid the prisoners around the room in something like order. The overturned cots were placed upright, and Pedro was laid on one, and the unknown member of Fingal’s gang was placed on the other. Fingal and the general were left lying on the hard floor.

“The general,” remarked Clackett, poking him in the ribs with the toe of his boot, “was goin’ to take care o’ us in a summary fashion. He couldn’t hardly wait till nightfall, the general couldn’t. Ain’t he a nice-lookin’ specimen, Dick?”

“He’s the worst-looking swab I ever saw!” averred Dick. “He was all sword and spurs, and he didn’t know how to use ’em. That’s the reason he got captured. I guess he’ll be hung, fair enough. He ought to be hung, anyhow, and he would have been if he had fallen into the hands of General Mendez. We ought to have put him ashore to take the place of Gaines. We robbed the soldiers of one victim, and we should have given them another.”

“I tell ye what we ought to have done,” averred Clackett. “We ought to have laid all these here prisoners out on the deck when we was passing that fort.”

“You’re right,” cried Dick. “That was a bright idea. But,” and Dick’s face fell, “like a good many bright ideas it came too late.”

“With them fellers on the deck,” said Clackett, waxing eloquent over his afterthought, “I’ll bet somethin’ handsome we could have run past that fort and never been fired at once.”

“Like enough. But we’re past the fort, and we’re right side up with care, and we’ve got Bob Steele to thank for it all. Let’s go back and see how near it is to supper time.”

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE “SEMINOLE.”

All night long the Grampus felt her way up the coast. Clackett acted as pilot some of the time, and Bob “spelled” him in two-hour watches. Neither was very well acquainted with the coast, and it was necessary to proceed slowly.

The electric projector was turned against the forward lunettes, and, with this trail of light stretching before them, the Grampus plowed her way through the breaking seas and safely escaped the reefs that lined her course.

Morning found the submarine still several hours from Belize.

Ysabel and Speake got breakfast, and while it was being eaten a cry of “Sail, ho!” came from Clackett, who was in the tower.

“Where away?” called Bob, only passively interested.

“Dead ahead,” answered Clackett. “But I ought to have said ‘Smoke, ho!’ as the craft is a steamer.”

“Which way is she heading?”

“Toward us.”

“Then probably she’s some Costa Rica fruiter.”

Bob went on with his eating. Dick was below, standing his trick at the motor in order to give Gaines a chance to eat and rest.

“We’re going back to Belize,” said Gaines humbly, “and I feel like a criminal, caught and carried back to jail.”

“Why so?” inquired Bob.

“Why, because Speake, Clackett, and I got the Grampus into that mess of trouble. She’s had more narrow escapes this trip than she ever had since she was launched—and when we listened to the don you’d have thought we were off on a little pleasure excursion.”

“I feel mighty tough myself,” put in Speake.

“So do I,” cried Clackett from the conning tower.

A little of the conversation had drifted up to him—enough so that he could catch the prevailing sentiment of the remarks.

“Don’t fret about what you can’t help, men,” said Bob.

“But what will Cap’n Nemo, junior, say?” said Gaines.

“Why, you said he’d be glad we went, after we came back and reported,” said Speake. “Have ye changed yer mind, Gaines?”

“I’ve changed my mind a good many times since we set off on this cruise,” replied Gaines.

“I don’t believe the captain will find any fault with you,” said Bob. “I’ll do what I can to smooth the thing over.”

“It’s like you to do that,” returned Gaines gratefully. “You were the same with Cassidy, that other time when he came in from the River Izaral, and I remember I thought you were rather too easy on him.”

“We all thought that,” said Speake. “And I’m free to say that I think Bob’s too easy on us.”

“That bag with the gold pieces was left down in the torpedo room,” went on Clackett.

“It was?” queried Bob, deeply interested.

“Yes. I left it there. I wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole.”

“That will pay for a new periscope ball and mast,” said Bob, “and for the provisions and gasoline we used up on this trip. Taking it all together, we’ve had a very successful cruise——”

“Hot and lively,” put in Speake.

“And short,” added Gaines; “that’s the best part of it. If it had kept up much longer, I’d have been down with heart failure. We not only had a close call in the matter of losing the ship to Fingal and his gang, but likewise in the matter of that submarine mine. My nerves are in rags, and I hope Nemo, junior, isn’t going to sit down on us too hard. That would be about the last straw!”

“Hard luck that we couldn’t have nabbed Don Carlos,” wailed Speake. “I’d have taken particular pleasure in herding him with the rest of our prisoners.”

“We’ve got Pitou,” said Bob, “and he’s of more importance. There——”

“Hello, down there!” came from Clackett.

“What now, Clackett?” sang out Bob.

“That steamer’s a warship—I’ve just been able to make her out. By jing, I believe she’s the Seminole!”

The announcement aroused a commotion.

“Make way for us to get out on deck, Clackett!” called Bob. “If she’s the Seminole, I want to speak to her.”

Bob, Speake, Clackett, and Ysabel clustered on the forward deck near the conning tower.

“Get the code book and the signal flags and the binoculars,” cried Bob. “She’s got signals going up at her gaff and wants to talk to us.”

Speake went below for the required articles, and, after fifteen minutes of study and work, Bob and his friends learned, to their surprise, that the Seminole had put in at Belize the day before and had been sent by the American consul to find the submarine. There was so much to be said that signal flags could not convey that the cruiser hove to and had the Grampus come around under her lee.

In this manner the submarine was able to come quite close—so close that Bob and Dick could see their tow-haired chum on the cruiser’s bridge. Carl picked up a megaphone and hurled greetings at his friends.

Then the captain grabbed the trumpet out of Carl’s hands to do a little talking that amounted to something.

“We’ve started for the Izaral River to look for you,” called the captain.

“How did you know where we had gone?” asked Bob.

“Don Ramon Ortega furnished the clew to the American consul at Belize.”

“Where did Don Ramon get the clew?”

“Your Dutch pard helped—but he’ll tell you about that later. What’s the matter with your periscope?”

“Bombarded by revolutionists.”

“Great Scott! Where?”

“Off Port Livingstone.”

“If those fellows to the south don’t capture that little scoundrel, Pitou, before long, some of the bigger nations ought to interfere.”

“He’s captured,” said Bob.

“Is that so? I didn’t think Mendez would ever do it.”

“He didn’t. We’re the ones!”

“Well, well! How did you manage?”

“The general got tangled up in his spurs, and before he could get clear we snaked him below decks.”

A roar of laughter came through the cruiser’s megaphone.

“He’s not the only prisoner we’ve got,” went on Bob. “Fingal is below!”

“Bully! We want him. Perhaps we had better take all your prisoners, eh?”

“We’d like to get rid of them.”

“Well, stay where you are and we’ll send a boat.”

“You mustn’t let Pedro go, Bob!” exclaimed Ysabel.

“That’s so,” said Bob. “Suppose you go down, little girl, and set Pedro free. Send him to the torpedo room and tell him to wait there until the cruiser is gone.”

Ysabel vanished into the tower.

Meanwhile the cruiser had been clearing away a boat. When she hove alongside the submarine, Carl Pretzel, wearing a grin that could have been tied behind his ears, was sitting in the bow.

“I vill go mit you part oof dis groose, anyvay,” he whooped. “Drow some lines so dot I may come apoard.”

A line was thrown and Carl was heaved from the rocking rowboat to the submarine’s deck. He threw his arms around Bob and almost hugged him over the side of the Grampus.

“I vas so habby as I don’d know!” he bubbled. “I t’ought you vas gone for goot, und I vasn’t going to see you again! Dere iss a lod to dell, I bed you, und I——”

“We haven’t time to tell anything just now, Carl,” said Bob. “As soon as we get rid of our prisoners we’ll have a little leisure.”

Carl restrained himself, assisted in the work of getting the prisoners up and transferred, and then watched while the launch pulled back to the cruiser with its melancholy load.

“What will you do with Pitou, captain?” called Bob through his megaphone.

“Turn him over to the government of that country down there to be punished for running off the American consul, and for his many other outrages against peaceable Americans.”

“What do you think the government will do with him?”

“Firing squad at sunrise,” was the laconic response.

“What about Fingal?”

“Our country will take care of him. He’ll make a good cellmate for his brother, Jim Sixty. Sorry you didn’t capture Don Carlos Valdez. The governor at Belize would like to lay hands on him. He made an unprovoked attack on the Spanish consul, and, if caught, would do time for it.”

By that time the launch had got back to the ship’s side, and Bob, bidding the captain of the cruiser a hearty good-by, started the Grampus onward toward Belize.

Speake took the wheel for a while, and the three chums were able to enjoy a quiet little talk together. While they were at it, the door of the prison room opened and Ysabel Sixty stepped out. Carl almost fell off his seat.

“Iss dot a shpook vat I see?” he mumbled, staring at the girl, “oder iss id Miss Sixdy, der peaudiful maiten vat I know so vell?”

“Don’t be foolish, Carl,” Ysabel protested, smiling.

“Foolishness iss natural mit me—I vas porn dot vay. I see somepody on der teck oof der supmarine, ven ve first come glose, und I t’ought id looked like you in der face, aber dose poy’s clothes make some greadt shanges. How id vas, anyhow?”

“Look here, Carl,” said Bob, “did you borrow a guitar from a fellow at the hotel the night the submarine left Belize?”

Carl proceeded to work up quite a temper.

“You bed you!” he cried; “und vat you t’ink? Dot feller make me pay six tollar for dot kiddar! Vy, I ged him for two tollar by any shdore in der Unidet Shdates vat I know. Dot’s right. Six tollar! Dot’s vat he make me pay.”

“What happened to the guitar? How did you come to smash it like that?”

Thereupon Carl turned loose and told all about his disastrous serenade, and how he climbed into the premises of Don Ramon Ortega, found the don bound and gagged in his sitting room, released him, and then hurried with him to the hotel to find Bob, and then to the landing, only to discover that the submarine had left the harbor.

“After dot,” proceeded Carl, “der gonsul vas der feller for us. He say dot der Seminole vould be in der harpor in der morning, und dot he vould haf her go und look for der supmarine und Bob Steele. Und dot vas vat he dit, und py shinks I vent along. Now, den, you fellers tell me all aboudt eferyding. I vandt id all, mit nodding lefdt oudt.”

Carl got every detail, and by the time the boys were through straightening the various events out in his mind, Speake was ringing the motor-room jingler for less speed, and signaling for anchors.

“Belize!” he called. “We’re at our old berth. Cut out the talk, down there, and make ready to go ashore. Let Carl and Dick be the anchor watch, Bob, for you know that Clackett, Gaines, and I have business with Captain Nemo, junior.”

CHAPTER XXXII.
MATTERS ARRANGED.

Captain Nemo, junior, made an astonishing rally during the night the Grampus was creeping slowly up the shore of British Honduras. He awoke from a refreshing slumber, sound of mind and with an optimistic outlook on life which boded good things for Speake, Gaines, and Clackett.

The doctor, when he called, shook his hand in congratulation.

“You are doing better than I dared to hope, captain,” said he.

“Can I talk business, doctor?” asked the captain.

“As much as you like. Keep on with the same medicine, Cassidy,” the doctor added to the mate; “I don’t think we can improve on that.”

As soon as the doctor had gone, Cassidy made a confession which he had been keeping stored away in his mind for several days. It was a confession of his treachery toward Bob Steele and the rest of his mates aboard the Grampus during the other cruise south to rescue the American consul.

Cassidy did not spare himself, but told the astonishing facts fully and in detail.

Captain Nemo, junior, listened in pained surprise. For several minutes after Cassidy finished he did not speak.

“If you’re going to begin drinking again, Cassidy,” said the captain, “I suppose we ought to part company.”

“I’ve taken my last drink,” declared Cassidy.

“Do you mean it?”

“I do.”

“And Bob Steele, on his way back from the River Izaral, put you back in the ship as mate?”

“Yes.”

“Well, whatever Bob Steele does is good enough for me. If you were put there as mate, then you stay there.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Cassidy, shaking his captain’s hand.

At that moment a rap fell on the door. Cassidy opened it, and Gaines, Speake, Clackett, and Bob Steele walked into the room.

“Well, well, Bob!” cried Captain Nemo, junior, his face brightening wonderfully at sight of the young motorist, “this is a pleasure, I must say! You’ve brought the entire crew of the Grampus with you, eh?”

“Not quite all of them,” laughed Bob. “Cassidy was here, taking care of you, and we left Dick and Carl aboard for an anchor watch.”

“You fellows act as though you had something on your minds,” observed the captain, giving the three members of the crew a curious look.

“That’s what we have, sir,” answered Gaines. “We have a confession to make.”

“Confession!” muttered the captain. “This seems to be my morning for hearing confessions. Well, go ahead.”

Thereupon Speake, Gaines, and Clackett, on their part, told the captain exactly what had taken place during this second trip to the River Izaral. Captain Nemo, junior, was dumfounded. Pursing his thin lips, he leaned back in his chair and watched and listened with the utmost attention.

“So,” said he cuttingly, when the recital was done, “Bob Steele refused to take my boat south, in response to the request of this scoundrelly don, and you locked Bob and Dick in the storage room of the submarine and went off whether they would or no! And you called Bob out of the room to fix the motor and keep the boat from going on the reefs; and you picked up a supposedly shipwrecked crew out of a boat, and the crew turned on you and captured the Grampus; and, with the aid of Miss Sixty, Bob Steele and his friends recovered the boat, captured Fingal, Pitou, and some others, and turned them over to the cruiser Seminole—all of which would not have happened had not you, Speake, Gaines, and Clackett acted in an insubordinate and mutinous manner. What had I ought to do with them, Bob?”

“They behaved finely during the fighting and while we were running down the river, past the fort,” replied Bob, “so I don’t think they should be dealt with very severely, captain.”

“You’re too easy with them, Bob! Look at the trouble they caused you!”

“But see what good luck came out of it, captain. We captured Pitou and Fingal.”

“That isn’t the best thing that has come out of it, Bob,” remarked the captain. “The best thing for me is the fact that this mutinous conduct of Speake, Clackett, and Gaines proves, more than ever, that you are always to be depended on. You refused to sail away on a wild-goose chase after listening to a plausible story told by this rascally don, and——”

“I took a good deal of stock in the story at the time it was told, captain,” said Bob.

“That may be; but you didn’t let your own desires override what you conceived to be your duty. There would have been no merit in your act, for you, if you had not wanted to go with the don, but yet allowed your idea of duty to me hold you back. I am much obliged to you, Speake, Gaines, and Clackett, for affording me this added proof that my confidence in Bob Steele is not misplaced. But, if I ever hear of any further mutiny on the Grampus, there will be something happen which none of you will ever forget.

“The U. S. cruiser Seminole is in the harbor, and I am positive that her captain bears some news for me of a very important nature. This may make it necessary for a call to be made upon the officers and crew of the Grampus for some further work. I cannot tell yet as to that, but you’ll receive your orders later. If so it turns out, then your commanding officer will be Bob Steele. Now leave me, all of you, for I have both listened and talked too much, and I am beginning to feel tired. Have the periscope ball and mast repaired, Bob, as soon as possible, and call and see me to-night.”

As Bob left the house and made his way along the street, he came suddenly upon Ysabel Sixty, again clad in her feminine clothes and looking like the Ysabel he used to know of old.

“You did not stay long at home, Ysabel,” said Bob.

“I couldn’t,” she answered. “I wanted to find out what your plans were, and how long you expect to remain in Belize.”

“That’s all in doubt, as yet. I am to call on Captain Nemo, junior, to-night, and perhaps he will be able to tell me something about future plans.”

“I hope,” and there was a tremulous earnestness in the girl’s words, “that you are not going to leave Belize very soon.”

“I should like to stay here a little while, Ysabel, myself,” said Bob.

Her face brightened. “And if you are here for a while, you will come often and see me?”

“You may depend upon it,” said Bob, taking her hand cordially. “I shall never forget this last experience of yours, and how you undertook an exceedingly risky venture solely to be of aid to me.”

There was a gentleman waiting for a word with Bob, and Ysabel, with a glad smile, turned away in the direction of home.

“Señor Bob Steele?” asked the gentleman, who had been waiting for Ysabel to finish her talk with Bob.

“The same, sir,” replied Bob.

“I, my boy, am Don Ramon Ortega, the Spanish consul in Belize. I wish to beg your pardon for the serious misadventures into which you were plunged through the unwarranted use of my name by that unmitigated scoundrel, Don Carlos Valdez.”

“You were not to blame for that, don.”

“Perhaps not, but I feel keenly the trouble which my name—always an honorable one—has caused you. Some time, when my family return from Mexico, I shall hope to see you at my home as an honored guest. Will you come?”

“Certainly, sir, if I am in Belize.”

“I thank you, señor,” said the don; and then, with a courtly bow, he passed on.

Bob hardly knew whether to laugh or look sober; but when he reflected on how the rascally Don Carlos had juggled with the Spanish consul’s name, and used it for base purposes, he felt that perhaps the consul was right in taking the matter so much to heart.

That evening, Pedro was taken ashore and lodged in the house of Ysabel’s relatives. The next day he took passage to Cuba, and forever cut himself adrift from revolutions and the filibusters who foster them.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
A SUBMARINE BATTLE.

About a week later, the boys received sailing orders and promptly made everything ready aboard the Grampus. Then, having learned every detail of their commission, they collected the men and departed on the new cruise.

They had been at sea several days, and were proceeding leisurely southward, when Bob took one of the daily observations.

“Look at the chart, Dick. Unless I’m off in my reckoning, those blue things in the distance, that look like clouds, are the mountains of Trinidad.”

“Right-o, mate! The Gulf of Paria is to the south, and right ahead of us is the Boca Drago, or Dragon’s Mouth, the entrance to the gulf. What’s our first port of call?”

“Georgetown. That’s where we’re to pick up the midshipman.”

“But we’re two days ahead of time, and he won’t be expecting us. Why not put in at Port of Spain for a little social call? I was there once, on the old Billy Ruffin, and it’s a fine place for getting on your go ashores and seeing the sights.”

“This is a business trip, old chap, and not a sight seeing excursion. Our schedule has been made out for us, and we’ve got to follow it through. It’s a big responsibility we’re under, and if anything should happen to the Grampus, there’d——”

At this moment a tremendous shock interrupted Bob Steele. The big steel hulk of the submarine stopped dead, reeled for an instant like a drunken man, and then rebounded sternward against the push of the propeller. Accompanying the weird maneuver was a fierce thrashing of the waves outside.

Sunk level with the surface of the sea, conning tower awash, the Grampus had been proceeding at a good clip on her southward journey. Bob Steele and Dick Ferral were in the periscope room, Bob with his attention divided between the periscope table, the steering wheel, and the small compass, and Dick on his knees beside a locker on which were a number of admiralty charts.

Dick was thrown sidewise by the shock, and Bob only saved himself a fall by taking a convulsive grip on the spokes of the steering wheel.

“Fore rudder will not work, sir!” cried Speake through the tube communicating with the engine room.

One admirable thing about Bob was that he never got “rattled.” Under any and all circumstances he kept his head.

“Stop your motor, Gaines!” he cried instantly through another of the tubes, then, whirling to still another, he called: “Prepare to empty the ballast, Clackett!”

The ready “Aye, aye, sir!” that came through both tubes proved that those in motor room and tank room were on the alert.

The hum of the engine died slowly, and muffled sounds from the tank room showed that Clackett was calmly attending to his work.

In time of accident no man could leave his post, for the safety of the submarine, and the lives of those within her might depend upon an instant compliance with orders. Iron-nerved men formed the crew of the Grampus, for each had been selected by Captain Nemo, junior, with that quality in mind.

Meanwhile Bob Steele had been studying the top of the periscope table carefully.

“So far as I can make out,” said he, in a puzzled tone, “there is nothing above.”

“The Orinoco brings down a lot of drift, mate,” put in Dick, “and we may have struck a log floating between two waves. If our rudder has been damaged——”

He was interrupted by another blow, fully as severe as the first. But this stroke came from the side and not from forward, and hurled the submarine over so far that every loose article slammed to starboard, and it seemed as though the boat must surely turn turtle.

“Start the turbines, Clackett!” roared Bob through the tank-room tube; “empty the ballast tanks!”

“Sorry to report, Bob,” came the instant response of Clackett, “that the turbines are disabled an’ won’t work.”

Bob was astounded. “Then empty the tanks by compressed air!” he cried. “Sharp’s the word, Clackett!”

The hiss of air, fighting with the water in the tanks, was heard. At once the boat began to ascend and presently the slap of waves against the outer shell proved that they were on the surface.

“Take the wheel, Dick,” called Bob, and leaped up the iron ladder into the conning tower.

The lunettes, or little windows in the tower, were frosted with spindrift, and Bob threw open the hatch and pushed head and shoulders over the top.

“Great spark plugs!” he cried; “a whale!”

“A bull cachalot!” exclaimed Dick from below, staring through the periscope.

“Vat iss dot, Dick?”

The voice of Carl Pretzel, none too steady, floated up to Bob from the periscope room. Carl was not on duty, and had probably come up to find out what was going on.

“Why,” went on Dick excitedly, “a cachalot is one of the hardest fighters in the whole whale family. We probably ran into that old blubber head while he was taking his morning nap, and he’s got his mad up. By the Old Harry! See him spout! We’re going to have trouble with him, Bob! His head’s like India rubber, and he could poke it through the plates of the Grampus and never hurt himself.”

Bob had got his head out of the hatch just in time to snatch a glance at the flukes of a big whale disappearing in the sea.

He signaled half speed ahead by the engine-room jingler. The elevation of the periscope ball gave Dick a much more extensive view of the surface than it did Bob from the top of the conning tower. The whale had come to the top again, and, while Bob was able to see the geyserlike column of water the creature threw up, Dick could take in the cachalot’s immense proportions.

“He’s lumpy all over,” announced Dick, “and every lump is an old harpoon mark. He’s a veteran, mates, and he’s coming right at us. He’ll stave in the plates, Bob! Dodge him!”

“Tell Speake and Clackett to put a Whitehead in the port torpedo tube!” called Bob.

Dick immediately repeated the order, and Carl clattered below to help.

“They can’t get the tube loaded, Bob,” cried Dick, “before the cachalot will be on us.”

“We’ll have to meet his first charge,” answered Bob calmly; “there can’t be any dodging.”

There came a low thump from forward, followed by a gurgling splash. From that Bob knew that the bow port had been closed and that the water was being blown out of the tube by compressed air. Then a faint rattle told him the breech door was being opened preparatory to loading the torpedo.

By then Bob was able to see the charging whale. He was a tremendous fellow, and he was making straight for the submarine with all the force in his great body. The water flashed away from his shining sides, and a long trail of foam unrolled behind his churning flukes.

“I’ll do the steering from here, Dick!” shouted Bob, laying hold of the patent device which enabled one to steer from the tower.

Bob headed the boat so as to meet its strange antagonist bow on. Whale and submarine came together with a terrific impact. For an instant the whale seemed stunned, sheered off a little, and the sharp prow raked his side.

The next instant the Grampus was beyond the whale. Bob, looking behind, could see the huge cachalot leaping clear out of the water, and falling into it again with a splash like some mountain dropping into the sea.

The whale was terribly wounded, and bleeding, but the wound seemed only to have increased his pugnacious disposition.

“Watch the periscope, Dick!” roared Bob. “Can you see him? He’s out of sight from here.”

“He’s sounded, mate,” answered Dick, his tense voice proving the strain his nerves were under. “I’m hoping he’ll leave us now, and—— There he is again! He’s coming for us like an express train.”

A spouting of reddened water gave Bob the location, and he put the Grampus about, so as to face the danger and bring the cachalot in front of the port torpedo tube.

“Tell them to make ready in the torpedo room!” shouted Bob. “They must fire the Whitehead the moment I give the word.”

Dick repeated the order. The torpedo was contrived so as to travel at a certain distance under water. If discharged at too great a distance from the whale it would sink to its normal depth, and so miss the charging monster altogether. Bob, watching the cachalot with sharp eyes, awaited the right moment for letting the Whitehead go.

The whale left a bloody track as it hurled itself nearer and nearer.

“Fire!” shouted Bob suddenly.

A gurgling swish, a spluttering cough, and a thud followed. The surface of the sea directly ahead of the submarine was full of ripples that marked the passing of the deadly infernal machine.

“Full speed astern!” cried Bob.

Dick repeated the order to Gaines. Barely was the motion of the propeller reversed when whale and torpedo met. There was a dull roar, and the sea lifted high in a veritable flurry. The Grampus slid backward rapidly, rocking on the troubled waters. Then, the lifted waves having descended, the whale was seen torn cruelly and lying on his back. Already the triangular fins of sharks were in evidence, rushing from every direction upon the prey.

Bob descended to the engine room and found Dick steering with one hand and wiping the perspiration from his face with the other.

“A tight squeak!” Dick muttered. “We’re out one torpedo, but you saved the boat.”

Speake, meanwhile, had been taking the turbine to pieces. He now appeared in the periscope room with a wooden sieve half full of small fish.

“Mullet for dinner, Bob!” he laughed. “A shoal of fish was bein’ chased by the cachalot. The draft holes of our turbines was open an’ the fish run in. No wonder the turbines wouldn’t work!”

“Good enough,” answered Bob laughing, “if you can call anything good that put our turbines out of commission at a time when we needed them. Have some of them for dinner, Speake.” He turned to Dick. “Lay our course for the Port of Spain, old chap,” he added. “We’ll put into the harbor and look the submarine over to see whether her bow has been damaged any. I’ll go below and have a look at the fore rudder. Possibly we can tinker that up temporarily. It would never do to pick up the midshipman with the Grampus at all out of commission.”

“Aye, aye!” responded Dick heartily.

They were to call at the Port of Spain, after all, and Dick Ferral was mightily pleased with the prospect.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN QUEST OF DOCUMENTS.

The anchor of the steamship Borneo splashed into the yellow waters of the Gulf of Paria, the boat continuing onward until the anchor had taken a grip on the muddy bottom. The Borneo was from Venezuelan ports, and at La Guayra had picked up no less a personage than John Henry Glennie, Ensign, U. S. N.

The steamer carried a queer assortment of passengers, and they were all around Ensign Glennie as he sat well aft on the grating beside the hand-steering gear.

Venezuelans were chattering like magpies; little brown youngsters were rolling over and over around Glennie’s feet; a British engineer was talking with a Jew pearl buyer from Margarita Island—the Spanish coming queerly from their alien lips; a German coffee planter was exchanging small talk with the wife of a Dutch officer who lived in Curaçoa; and there was the usual ragtag and bobtail of English and Brazilians, all of whom gave the youth in the naval uniform more or less curious notice.

But the youth, his suit case on a table at his elbow, seemed absorbed in his own thoughts. Judging merely by appearance, Ensign Glennie’s thoughts were far from pleasant. His fingers drummed sharply on the table top, and there was a frown of discontent on his face as his eyes fixed themselves gloomily on the Trinidad hills that lay back of the town of Port of Spain. In all conscience, the ensign had enough to trouble him.

Several days previous, he had been detached from the United States cruiser Seminole at La Guayra on special duty. Incidentally, the commander of the Seminole had intrusted him with a packet of important papers to be delivered to Mr. Brigham, the United States consular representative at Para, in the mouth of the Amazon River. In the course of his duty, Ensign Glennie was to call at Para; also the course of his duty demanded that he proceed to Georgetown, British Guiana, and there await the arrival of a certain boat in which he was to take passage around “the Horn.”

Ensign Glennie, let it be known, was descended from a line of Massachusetts notables who first came over in the Mayflower. His father was a Boston nabob, and there was a good deal more pride and haughtiness about Glennie than was good for him. No sooner had he been cut loose from the Seminole on detached duty, than he proceeded to hire the services of a body servant—a sphinxlike little Jap by the name of Tolo.

How Tolo came to be in La Guayra at the very time the ensign landed there, and why he should insinuate himself into the particular notice of Glennie and ask for a job, were mysteries not destined to be solved for some time. The prime thing to be taken account of here is that Tolo did present himself, and was hired.

For two days he brushed the ensign’s clothes, polished his boots, and performed other services such as fall to the lot of a valet who knows his business. Then, after two days of faithful service, Tolo disappeared; and, about the same time, the packet of important papers likewise vanished.

Glennie led the authorities in a wild hunt through La Guayra, and after that through Caracas, but Tolo was not to be found. What on earth the little Jap wanted with the papers, Glennie could not even guess, but that he had them seemed a certainty.

Returning to La Guayra, Glennie found that the authorities there had discovered that Tolo had taken passage, on the very morning he had turned up missing, on a tramp steamer bound for Trinidad and Port of Spain; and the authorities further stated that Tolo had formerly been employed as a waiter in the hotel Ciudad Bolivar, which fronted the esplanade of the capital city of the island.

Ensign Glennie changed his plans forthwith. Instead of proceeding direct to Georgetown he would gain that port by way of Trinidad, stopping long enough in Port of Spain to hunt up the enterprising Tolo and secure the papers.

So this was why Glennie happened to be on the Borneo; and it was also the reason he was not so comfortable in his mind as he might otherwise have been.

As a commissioned officer in the United States navy he had been intrusted with important dispatches. If he did not recover the dispatches, and then proceed with the rest of the duty marked out for him, a black mark would be set against his name that would interfere with his promotion.

Glennie was worried as he had never been before in his life. His one desire was to serve Uncle Sam with a clean and gallant record. His father, the Boston nabob, expected great things of him, and Glennie, being puffed up—as already stated—with rather high ideas regarding his family, expected them of himself. Therefore the loss of that packet of official papers caught him like a slap in the face. It made him squirm, and he was squirming as he sat by that table on the grating, felt the Borneo reach the end of her scope of cable and come to a stop with her mud hook hard and fast.

The water was too shoal for a large boat to get very far inshore, and Glennie was among the first to tumble into the launch that soon hove alongside. When he had scrambled off the launch at the landing, he hailed a queer-looking cab and ordered the dusky driver to carry him, as rapidly as possible, to the Ciudad Bolivar.

The ensign did not pay much attention to the scenery as he was jostled along—his mind was too full of other things for that—and presently he went into the wood and stone building that faced the plaza and proceeded to make frantic inquiries regarding a waiter by the name of Tolo.

To all of these eager questions the Venezuelan proprietor of the hotel gave a negative shake of the head.

“There must be some mistake—the Señor Americano has surely been wrongly informed. There has never been such a person as the Japanese employed in the hotel. The waiters were all Venezuelans, and no Japs were ever employed. Perhaps this Tolo had worked in the old hotel that had been burned during the great fire?”

Glennie’s trail, faint enough at best, had run into thin air. He was at the end of it, and it had led him nowhere. Going off into one corner of the wine-room, the ensign dropped down at a table in an obscure corner, rested his chin in his hands, and wondered dejectedly what he should do next.

He was not very well acquainted with Orientals, or the brand of guile they used. He had heard of Japs insinuating themselves into fortifications flying the United States flag and making drawings and jotting down memoranda of the guns, stores, and number of men. He had laughed contemptuously at such yarns, although heartily agreeing with the expediency that had suggested such a move on the part of the men from Nippon. Like all others in the sea and land service of the great republic, Ensign Glennie knew that it was not so much the forts, or the guns, or the ammunition, as it is the unconquerable spirit of the men behind the guns that count.

But where was the tactical advantage to be gained by a Jap in stealing an envelope addressed to a consular agent tucked away in a Brazilian town at the mouth of the Amazon? The only advantage which Glennie could think of was that of pecuniary gain. Tolo had stolen the packet in order to demand money for its return. Glennie had plenty of money, and he began to think he had fallen into a grievous error by running away from La Guayra without giving Tolo a chance to communicate with him.

And yet there was the information developed by the La Guayra police, to the effect that Tolo had sailed for Port of Spain. However, this might be as unreliable as that other supposed discovery, namely, that Tolo had worked at the Ciudad Bolivar.

Nevertheless, no matter what theories Glennie might have, now that he was in Port of Spain, and could not get out of the town again until the next steamer sailed, it would be well to look around and thus make assurance doubly sure that Tolo was not on the island.

Although Ensign Glennie was not at all sanguine, he immediately left the hotel and conferred with the city officials. A description of Tolo was given, handbills offering a reward for his apprehension were struck off and posted in conspicuous places, and the island telegraph lines and the cables to the mainland were brought into requisition.

Glennie had to work fast and thoroughly. Before many days he must be in Georgetown, ready to go aboard the ship that was to carry him south, and if he did not recover the important packet before he was picked up, then there would be a reprimand, and perhaps a trial for dereliction of duty. He winced at the thought and redoubled his efforts.

But he was “going it blind.” The wily Tolo might be a thousand miles away and rapidly increasing the distance between him and his erstwhile employer. Yet, be that as it might, Ensign Glennie could not give over his hopeless labors.

He fought against fate with all the Glennie firmness and resolution. Fate had no business trying to back-cap one of the Glennies, anyhow. Family pride swelled up in him as the skies of hope continued to darken. All he did was to cable his governor for a few thousand dollars and then begin scattering it wherever he thought it might do some good.

Three days Ensign Glennie was in Port of Spain; then one morning as he came down into the office of the hotel he heard an excited group talking about a mysterious under-water boat that had just bobbed up in the harbor.

Glennie pricked up his ears. “What’s the name of the boat?” he asked.

“The Grampus,” was the answer.

That was enough for the ensign. He settled his bill, grabbed up his suit case, and rushed for the landing.

He had hardly got clear of the hotel before a Chinaman, with a copy of one of the handbills, presented himself and asked for John Henry Glennie. The Chinaman was told where the ensign had gone, and he likewise made a bee line for the waterfront.

Here, at last, was a possible clew—and it was sailing after Glennie with kimono fluttering and pigtail flying.

CHAPTER XXXV.
THE MEETING IN THE HARBOR.

Events in this world, no matter how seemingly incomprehensible, usually happen for the best.

If the Grampus had not had her fight with the cachalot she would not have put in at Port of Spain, and if Ensign Glennie had not lost his dispatches he would not have put in there, either.

The damage to the fore rudder had been insignificant. Some of the iron bars protecting the rudder had been twisted and bent by the whale’s flukes, and Bob Steele had repaired the damage while coming through the Boca Drago into the gulf.

The submarine was riding high in the water a quarter of a mile off shore, the Stars and Stripes fluttering gayly from the little flagstaff forward. A small boat was in the water and a colored boatman was rowing two lads around the bow of the Grampus. Three men and another boy were forward on the submarine’s deck, evidently assisting in an examination of some sort.

Glennie had the skipper of the launch lay alongside the small boat.

“Hello, there!” called Glennie. “Is that boat the Grampus?”

“Yes,” replied one of the lads in the other boat.

“I’m looking for Bob Steele.”

“You mean you’re looking at him and not for him. I’m Bob Steele.”

“Well, I’m Ensign Glennie. What the dickens are you doing at Port of Spain?”

“What the dickens are you doing here? We were to pick you up at Georgetown.”

“What I’m doing here is my business,” said Glennie, stiffening. “I wasn’t expecting you for two or three days yet, and expected to be in Georgetown by the time you got there.”

Bob stared at the haughty young man in the trim uniform. Dick Ferral, who was in the boat with him, gave a long whistle.

“Then,” said Bob coolly, “I guess our reason for being here is our own business. We were expecting to find a midshipman, Glennie, and not——”

“Mr. Glennie,” struck in the ensign. “I’m a passed midshipman and a commissioned officer.”

Dick got to his feet, pulled off his cap, and bowed.

“Mr. Glennie!” he exclaimed, with an accent on the “mister” that was not entirely respectful. “Our brass band has been given shore leave, so we can’t muster the outfit and play you aboard. It’s a little bit hard, too, considering our limited number, to dress ship.”

A smothered laugh came from the deck of the Grampus. Glennie stared at Ferral, and then at Speake, Gaines, Clackett, and Carl. The latter, grabbing the flag halyards, dipped the ensign.

“If ve hat a gannon, Misder Glennie,” yelled Carl, “ve vould gif der atmiral’s salute.”

A flush ran through the ensign’s cheeks.

“Who is that person, Steele?” demanded Glennie, pointing to Dick.

“Mr. Steele,” corrected Bob. “This, Mr. Glennie,” with mock gravity, “is my friend, Mr. Dick Ferral. The Dutchman on the boat is another friend—Mr. Carl Pretzel. The hands are Mr. Speake, Mr. Gaines, and Mr. Clackett. This colored gentleman is Mr. Scipio Jones. Now that we are all acquainted, Mr. Glennie, may I ask you if you are coming aboard to stay?”

“I am,” was the sharp rejoinder. “Those were my orders from the captain of the Seminole.”

Bob caught a rope which Carl threw to him and stepped to the rounded deck of the Grampus.

“The submarine’s all right, Dick,” said he, “and hasn’t a dent in her anywhere. Go ashore and get the gasoline. Have you the hydrometer in your pocket?”

“Yes.”

“Then be sure and test the gasoline thoroughly.”

As Dick was rowed away he once more removed his hat ostentatiously in passing the launch. Ensign Glennie disregarded the mocking courtesy and motioned his boatman to place the launch close to the submarine.

“Take my grip, my man,” called Glennie to Gaines, standing up and tossing the suit case.

Gaines grabbed the piece of luggage. “Why didn’t you whistle, Mr. Glennie?” he asked, dropping the suit case down the open hatch of the conning tower and listening to the smash as it landed at the foot of the iron ladder. “We’re well trained and can walk lame, play dead, an’ lay down an’ roll over at a mere nod.”

The ensign ignored Gaines’ remarks. Climbing to the rounded deck he faced Bob Steele with considerable dignity.

In spite of the ensign’s arrogance there was about him a certain bearing learned only at Annapolis and on the quarter-deck of American warships—a bearing that predisposed Bob in his favor.

“We had a fight with a cachalot, Mr. Glennie,” said Bob, unbending a little, “and thought best to put in here and look the Grampus over to see if——”

“You were guilty of gross carelessness,” interrupted Glennie, “by risking the submarine in such a contest. But possibly you are ignorant of the fact that a bull cachalot has been known to attack and sink a full-rigged ship?”

“Vat a high-toned feller id is!” grunted Carl disgustedly. “He vill make it aboudt as bleasant on der poat as a case of measles.”

Bob frowned at Carl.

“It was either sink the cachalot or run the risk of being stove in,” said Bob. “We’ll have to have a little talk, Mr. Glennie, so you had better go below to the periscope room.”

The ensign nodded, climbed over the top of the tower, and disappeared.

“That there uniform makes him top-heavy, Bob,” growled Clackett. “The quicker you pull some o’ the red tape off o’ him the better it’ll be for all of us.”

“He’s all right, boys,” said Bob, “and I’ll bet he’s a good fellow down at the bottom. He forgets he’s not on the Seminole, that’s all.”

When Bob got down into the periscope room he found Glennie examining one corner of the suit case, which was badly smashed.

“I regret to note, Mr. Steele,” said he, “that there is a serious lack of discipline aboard this boat. Such a thing could never be tolerated in the service. We are to take a long and hazardous journey, and I shall insist on having the men keep their places.”

“You are not here to insist on anything, Mr. Glennie,” replied Bob, coolly placing himself on one of the low stools that were used as seats. “My own duties, and yours, are pretty clear in my mind. Let’s see if I have the situation exactly as you understand it.

“The owner of this boat, Captain Nemo, junior, is recovering from a sick spell in Belize, and he has sold the Grampus to the United States government for one hundred thousand dollars, conditional upon the submarine’s being taken around the Horn and delivered safely to the commandant at Mare Island Navy Yard, San Francisco. For this long cruise I have been placed in charge of the boat. You are aboard as representative of the government, merely to observe her performance. Have I got it right?”

Glennie nodded.

“Upon my report,” said he, “will largely depend the acceptance or rejection of the craft when she reaches Mare Island. Don’t overlook that point. A lack of discipline will get us all into trouble, and may result in the loss of the——”

“I will attend to the discipline,” said Bob stiffly. “If the boat behaves well, you can find no fault with the way I manage her. I must ask you not to bother me with any remarks as to how the Grampus is to be run. I and my friends are not in the naval service, but we all know the submarine perfectly and understand what is expected of us.

“The cruise we are to make is one that no submarine ever made before. It is full of dangers, and unforeseen difficulties are going to bob up and will have to be dealt with. The Grampus is equal to the work, and in due time she will be delivered to the commandant at Mare Island, but I want, and will insist on having, a perfectly free hand. A friendly footing is what I desire among all on board, more than anything else.”

Bob smiled and stretched out his hand.

“Just a minute, Mr. Steele,” said Glennie, pursing up his lips. “I understood that I was to be here in an advisory capacity. From your talk I take it that you consider yourself the whole works, and that I am to play the rôle of an innocent bystander.”

“I am to manage the boat,” returned Bob firmly.

“Then,” cried Glennie, “if you get us into serious difficulties, I am to say nothing, but bear the brunt of your mistakes along with the rest of the men?”

“Do you know anything about submarines?”

“A graduate of Annapolis is equipped with all the knowledge he can possibly need in his work.”

“Theoretical knowledge,” qualified Bob. “Have you ever had any practical experience on a submarine?”

“No.”

“Then, if I get into difficulties, I don’t think you could give any advice that would help us out.”

The ensign bowed coldly. “Have you a cabin reserved for me?” he inquired.

Bob nodded toward a bulkhead door leading to a steel room abaft the periscope chamber. “We have fixed up a place in there for you,” said he.

“Then, inasmuch as I am a passenger, I will proceed to eliminate myself and keep out of your way.”

Without taking Bob’s hand he picked up his suit case and started. At the door he paused while a hail came down from the hatch.

“Hello dere, Bob!”

“What is it, Carl?”

“Dere iss a Chink feller alongsite, und he say dot he vant to see Misder Glennie.”

“A Chinaman!” muttered Glennie, pausing. “Why does he want to see me?”

“Vell, he say dot he tell you somet’ing aboudt a feller mit der name oof Dolo, und——”

A shout of joy escaped Glennie, and he dropped his suit case and jumped for the ladder.

“Wait, Mr. Glennie,” said Bob, “and I’ll have the Chinaman come down.”

“Very good,” said Glennie, smothering his impatience and dropping down on the locker.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
AH SIN’S CLEW.

The Chinaman came scuffling down the ladder in his wooden sandals. He wore an old slouch hat pulled low over his ears, and when he stepped from the last rung to the floor of the periscope room, he shoved his hands into the wide sleeves of his blue silk blouse and stood looking around him in gaping amazement.

“I’m Mr. Glennie,” said the ensign impatiently. “Do you want to see me?”

“Allee same,” answered the Celestial. “You makee that, huh?” he added, pulling the crumpled handbill from one of his sleeves and holding it in front of the ensign’s eyes. “You givee fitty dol if I tell where you findee Japanese man?”

“Yes,” replied Glennie, stirring excitedly.

“Givee fitty dol. I know.”

“I don’t pay in advance. Tell me where Tolo is, then, if I find him, you get the money.”

The Chinaman was silent.

“Who are you?” demanded Glennie.

“Me Ah Sin.”

“Where’s Tolo?”

“Pay first. Me tellee, you no givee!”

“You’re an insolent scoundrel!” cried Glennie hotly. “I’m an officer and a gentleman, and if I say I’ll give you fifty dollars, I’ll do it.”

Ah Sin ducked humbly, but he remained firm. “Melican men plenty slick,” said he, with a gentle grin, “but China boy plenty slick, too.”

“If you won’t trust me,” returned the puzzled ensign, “how can I trust you?”

It seemed like a deadlock, and Ah Sin wrinkled his parchmentlike face.

“How you likee hire China boy?” he cried. “My cookee grub, blushee clo’s, makee plenty fine man. Workee fo’ twenty dol. Tolo him no stay in Tlinidad; him makee sail fo’ Pala.”

“Para?” burst from Glennie.

That was the port to which the important papers were consigned. If Tolo had gone there with them, it may have been for the purpose of treating with the consular agent direct.

“All same,” pursued the Chinaman. “You makee hire China boy, takee him by Pala, pay twenty dol fo’ wages, then givee fitty dol when you findee Tolo. Huh?”

“How do you happen to know where Tolo is?” demanded Glennie skeptically.

“My savvy Tolo. Makee work on landing when he takee boat fo’ Pala. Him makee come on one boat flom Ven’zuel’, makee go chop-chop on other boat fo’ Pala. Ah Sin makee chin with Tolo. Him say where he go in Pala.”

Glennie grabbed at this straw of hope like a drowning man. Ah Sin’s information might not be dependable, but it was the only clew that had come Glennie’s way, and he decided to make the most of it.

“There’s your twenty dol,” said he, throwing a gold piece to the Chinaman. “You’re hired. Make yourself scarce out there while I talk with the skipper of this boat.”

He nodded toward a door in the forward bulkhead, and Ah Sin, after grabbing the coin out of the air and biting it to make sure it was genuine, faded from the room.

“We’ve got enough hands aboard,” said Bob, “without taking a Chinaman on.”

“You don’t understand the situation, Mr. Steele,” returned Glennie, “and I shall have to explain to you.”

It was hard for the ensign’s pride to be compelled to confess the loss of the packet. But, if he had Bob’s help—which, in the circumstances, was necessary—it followed that he would have to let Bob know the details connected with the missing dispatches.

Bob listened attentively.

“The chink may be fooling you, Mr. Glennie,” he said, after the ensign had finished.

“Possibly,” was the answer; “but I can’t afford to pass up his information. The submarine was to call at Para, anyway, and we might just as well carry the Chinaman that far. You must realize what it means for me to recover those papers. Suppose I had to report that they were lost, and could not be found? Good heavens!” and Glennie drew a shaking hand across his forehead.

“I’m willing to help you, of course,” said Bob.

“You’re in duty bound to do that! If I had to report the loss of the papers because you refused to give me your aid, it wouldn’t sound very well, eh?”

“Do you want me to put all this in the log?”

“No, certainly not! I want you to keep quiet about it—in the event that the dispatches are recovered. If they’re not found, then—then—well, everything will have to come out.”

“Were the dispatches important?”

“They must have been, or they would have been sent by mail and not intrusted to me.”

“What does the Jap want with them?”

“Probably it’s a play for money. That’s the way I size it up.”

“But he pulled out of La Guayra. If he had wanted money he would have hidden himself away in that place and opened negotiations with you.”

“The chink says Tolo has gone to Para. That may mean that he is intending to open negotiations with Brigham. Great Scott! We’ve got to get away from here in short order. Can’t you start for Brazil at once?”

“I had planned to lay over here for the rest of the day, and to-night——”

“But everything may depend on the quickness with which we get to Brazil!”

“Well, I’m willing to start just as soon as Dick gets back with the gasoline. We’ll get along, after that, until we reach Rio, unless there’s some extra cruising in the Amazon.”

“I’m obliged to you, Mr. Steele.”

Glennie half extended his hand, but Bob did not seem to see it. Now that the ensign wanted aid in his time of trouble, he appeared anxious to get on the friendly footing which Bob had mentioned a little while before. But Bob, once rebuffed, was not going halfway to meet him on that ground.

“It seems to me, Mr. Glennie,” said he, “that there is something more behind this than just a desire, on the Jap’s part, to sell his dispatches to the highest bidder. The Japs are wily little fellows, and as brave as they are wily.”

“What else can you make out of it?” queried Glennie, with a troubled look.

“Nothing; only the theft strikes me as queer, that’s all. If the papers were so important, I should think you ought to have kept them in your possession every minute.”

“I did,” protested Glennie, a gleam of resentment rising in his eyes over the implied rebuke. “They were under my pillow, and Tolo, who came and went in my room just as he pleased, must have taken them while I was asleep.”

“Speake has been doing the cooking for us,” remarked Bob; “but if we’ve got to have the Chinaman along we’ll make him earn his pay and take the cooking off Speake’s hands.”

“I’m more than willing to have you consider Ah Sin one of the crew. He’ll probably be useful to me in Para, and not until we get there.”

“There are not many Japs in La Guayra, are there?” queried Bob, with a sudden thought.

“Tolo is the only one I saw,” answered Glennie.

“Then it’s a little queer he should be there at the same time you were. There was a Japanese war vessel in Belize a day before we left the harbor, and I understood she had called at Venezuelan ports. Do you think Tolo could have deserted from her?”

“The Japs never desert.”

“Was Tolo a sailor?”

“He said he was a servant, and that he had come to La Guayra from Caracas.”

“But the authorities told you he had been a waiter in a hotel in Port of Spain?”

“That was wrong, for the proprietor of the hotel didn’t know anything about Tolo.”

“Could you find out anything about him in Caracas?”

“No.”

“Then the Jap wasn’t telling you a straight story. It’s my impression he hired out to you just to get the packet of papers.”

“Bosh!” scoffed Glennie. “You’re giving him credit for more cunning than he deserves. Take it from me, he just saw how careful I was of those papers and made up his mind, on the spur of the moment, that he could make a few dollars by stealing them and selling them back to me, or else to Brigham at Para.”

“There’s more to it than that,” averred Bob.

He was somewhat worried, for, if there was a plot, it was possible it was not aimed at Ensign Glennie alone, but perhaps at the Grampus as well. This suspicion was only vaguely formed in Bob’s mind, but it was one of those strange, inexplicable “hunches” which sometimes came to him and which events occasionally proved to be warranted by results.

It must have been generally known in Belize that the Grampus had been sold to the United States government for a large sum, conditional upon her safe delivery at Mare Island; and perhaps it was equally well known, on the Seminole, at least, and maybe in La Guayra, that Ensign Glennie was to accompany the submarine on her passage around the Horn. All this knowledge, of course, could have been picked up, and perhaps used by unscrupulous persons. But what could such unscrupulous persons be hoping to gain by any crooked work?

Bob’s thoughts were carrying him far afield. Not only that, but they were bumping him into a stone wall. Giving over his useless speculations, he once more turned to the ensign.

“As I said before, Mr. Glennie,” he remarked, “this cruise of ours is not going to be a picnic. A whole lot depends on its success, and every man on board must be——”

At that moment he was interrupted by a sudden roar from below—a detonation that shook the steel fabric of the submarine in every part. The peculiar smell of burned gasoline rolled into the periscope room through the open bulkhead door.

“Great Cæsar!” gasped Glennie, leaping up. “What was that?”

A tramp of heavy feet on the deck proved that those outside the shell had heard the noise and were rushing toward the conning-tower hatch.

Bob, without pausing an instant, darted through the door and dropped down the hatch leading to the tank room and the motor room.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
OFF FOR THE AMAZON.

Bob Steele considered himself personally responsible for the safety of the Grampus. The boat had been placed in his charge by Captain Nemo, junior, her owner, and the captain’s faith in the boys was unlimited. Bob was to take the submarine to Mare Island Navy Yard and collect one hundred thousand dollars for her from the government. Those were his instructions, and the captain not only expected them to be carried out to the letter, but he also expected to pay Bob Steele well for doing it.

All this responsibility, it may be, had got on Bob’s nerves a little, so that he was apt to shy at imaginary dangers. But this fact in no wise interfered with his coolness and courage.

The whole under part of the submarine’s hull was filled with smoke—a smoke that had the acrid smell of burned gas. On hands and knees, Bob groped his way through the haze, pulled a switch, and set an electric ventilator fan at work. The fan soon cleared the ship, and the first figure Bob saw was that of the gasping Chinaman. He was on his knees in the tank room. In front of him lay a twisted and broken gasoline tank—a small reserve reservoir sometimes used to help out the larger tank when the fuel in it was running low. This auxiliary tank had not been used for a month, but had hung empty from a rack in the tank room.

At the Chinaman’s side lay a cigarette and a half-burned match.

“What the deuce happened?” cried Glennie, creeping after Bob.

“Your Chinaman tried to light a cigarette,” answered the young motorist, quick to reason out the cause of what had happened. “He was under an auxiliary gasoline reservoir, and the match set it off.”

“Thunder, Bob!” exclaimed Gaines, who had dropped down below after Glennie, “there hasn’t been any gasoline in that tank for a month.”

“The vapor was there, all the same.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Glennie. “Vapor wouldn’t stay in that tank for a month. It would escape and find its way out.”

“Gasoline vapor is heavier than air,” said Bob; “and it would remain indefinitely at the bottom of the reservoir. A little of it probably leaked through the bottom of the feed pipe, so that the match set it off. Luckily for the chink there wasn’t very much of it.”

“Gee, klismus!” babbled Ah Sin. “Me tly smokee, something go boom! No likee devil boat!”

“Have you any more cigarettes?” demanded Bob sharply.

Ah Sin dug a handful out of the breast of his blouse.

“Is that all?” demanded Bob.

“No gottee allee mo’.”

“Don’t strike any more matches,” went on Bob sternly. “You’re going with us to Para, and you’re going to do the cooking. Take him in hand, Speake,” he added to Speake, who had dropped down behind Gaines, “and show him how we do that part of our work on the Grampus. Keep an eye on him, and see that he doesn’t blow up the boat.”

“Never did like a Chinaman, nohow,” grumbled Speake. “If he gits too blame’ troublesome, I’ll break his scrawny neck. Come on here, yaller mug!”

Speake made off forward, toward the torpedo room, and Ah Sin meekly followed. Just then a thump on the deck, and a loud hail, announced that Dick had arrived with the gasoline.

“Rig the hose, Gaines,” called Bob. “Clackett, get the pump on deck. We’ve got to get the fuel into the tank in short order and then slant away for the Amazon and Para.”

While Gaines and Clackett busied themselves, Bob and Glennie went up to the periscope room. Carl was just climbing the ladder to help Dick. Glennie, without further talk, picked up his suit case and went on to the room that had been set apart for his use.

“Dot Chinaman vill ged us all indo some hot vater,” grunted. Carl.

“I guess not,” returned Bob. “Speake is looking after him.”

Clackett came with the pump and passed it to Dick, who was in the boat with the barrel of gasoline. The pump was rigged, the end of the hose clamped on, and Clackett and Dick got busy pouring the fuel through the hose and into the big tank below.

While they worked, Clackett explained to Dick that they were to make a quick departure for the Amazon. Dick was disappointed, for he had hoped for a night’s shore leave in Port of Spain, where he had some friends. When he learned that business of Glennie’s had all to do with their short stay in port, Dick was inclined to be resentful.

The ensign had not made much of a hit with Ferral—nor with any of the rest of the submarine’s complement, for that matter. Dick, however, did no more than grumble. If Bob Steele thought it necessary to pull out for the Amazon in such short order, then there was nothing more to be said. Bob knew what he was about.

Dick alone, of all the submarine’s crew, had been the only one to set foot on shore. As soon as the gasoline was transferred, and the boatman paid for his services, the anchor was taken in and the Grampus laid her course for the Serpent’s Mouth and began her long voyage toward the Amazon. Dick took the wheel. Bob, studying the charts, gave him the course. Glennie came out of his room and watched the two lads while they were at work.

Everything was going well, and the rhythmical hum of the motor echoed through the boat from the engine room. Glennie walked over and took a look at the periscope. In the mirror were reflected the slowly receding shore line and the distant mountains that arose behind the town.

“You fellows seem to know your business,” remarked Glennie.

“Aye,” growled Dick, “and we mind it, Mr. Glennie.”

The ensign turned from the periscope and went up on deck.

“Why are you keeping the boat so high in the water?” he called down.

“He knows so much, matey,” said Dick to Bob, “why not let him figure that out for himself?”

“Because,” Bob answered, shaking his head at Dick, “we can make better speed when we’re riding light. Once out of the Gulf of Paria, though, the sea will probably be so rough we’ll have to submerge.”

The ensign continued to ask questions and Bob continued to answer them until Speake announced dinner. The meal was served to the crew at their different stations, Ah Sin carrying the plates and the steaming cups of coffee.

After the meal Bob went up on deck with Glennie, and Dick did the steering from the top of the conning tower. The Gulf of Paria was a great watery plain, over which the waters of the Orinoco spread themselves before mingling with the sea.

The ensign, feeling that he was disliked, drew back into his shell and bore himself with a chilly reserve. Along toward three o’clock Bob relieved Dick and sent him below to sleep. Directly after supper Dick would have to relieve Gaines and stand his trick at the motor, and it was necessary for him to get a little rest. Carl would also have to relieve Clackett, and, in order to be fit for his duties, the Dutch boy had turned in immediately after dinner. He was sleeping on the floor of the periscope room, and Dick curled up on the locker.

The afternoon saw the Grampus well across the gulf, and by five o’clock she changed her course to south by east, leaving the densely wooded hills of Trinidad far behind with the coast of Venezuela in plain view to starboard.

Ah Sin, having been duly instructed as to his duties, prepared the supper on the electric stove, and served it. Speake relieved Bob at the steering gear, and when Dick went below to take Gaines’ place at the motor, Bob sprawled out on the locker to catch his own forty winks. A stiff sea was running, and the Grampus was submerged to a depth that merely left the periscope ball clear of the combers.

As the darkness deepened, Speake had Carl put the turbines at work, throwing out sufficient water ballast to lift the conning-tower lunettes clear of the waves. The electric projector was then turned on, and a ray of light shot through the forward lunette and marked the submarine’s path through the tumbling sea.

For some hours everything went well. Then abruptly the motor began to sputter and misfire, lessening the speed of the boat and throwing her—now that she was riding higher and with the top of the conning tower awash—more at the mercy of the waves.

Loose furniture began to slam around the periscope room. Bob was thrown from the locker, and sat up, wondering what had gone wrong with the motor.

“What’s the matter down there, Dick?” he called through the motor-room tube.

“I’m a Feejee if I know,” Dick answered. “You’d better come down and take a look.”

Bob was soon at his chum’s side. His keenly trained ear was usually able to locate any ordinary trouble, but this time he was puzzled. The ignition was all right, and the supply pipe from the tank was clear. Nevertheless, the motor sputtered and jabbered with a wheezy but unsuccessful attempt to do its full duty. The platinum, in the blade or spring of the commutator, will, in rare cases, get loose and cause misfiring, but that was not the cause of the present trouble. Another rare cause, resulting in similar symptoms, lay in the loosening of the carbon pole in the cell of a battery. But, just now, the batteries were not at fault.

Finally, as a last resort, Bob examined the gasoline that was being fed into the carburetor. A few drops in the palm of his hand aroused his suspicions. The next moment the hydrometer test was made and water was found in the gasoline.

“How did it get there?” demanded Dick. “The gasoline has worked well enough all afternoon and so far during the night.”

“None of the gasoline you bought in Port of Spain has been used as yet?”

“Not a drop.”

“Well, connect up the carburetor with the storage reservoir. If there is a little water in the carburetor, it will soon work out. After that, empty this tank, strain the gasoline through chamoiskin, and then give the tank a compressed-air treatment. I’ll send Clackett to help you.”

“But how, in the name of sin, did water get in that tank?” cried the perplexed Dick.

As Bob turned to crawl away, he picked up a six-inch ebony cylinder, about the size of a lead pencil, from near the tank. It was a chopstick!

“Has the Chinaman been here?” he asked.

“Not that I know of,” answered Dick. “Why?”

“Nothing,” said Bob, but he was thinking as he stepped into the torpedo room, aroused Clackett, and sent him aft to lend Dick a hand.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
VILLAINOUS WORK.

Gaines and Ah Sin were also sleeping in the torpedo room. As soon as Clackett had left, Bob bent down over the Chinaman and shook him roughly. The Celestial started up and stared blankly into the stern face of the young motorist.

“Wha’chee want?” he asked.

“Is this yours?” inquired Bob, producing the chopstick and studying the Chinaman’s face attentively as he did so.

The brim of the old slouch hat—which the yellow man had kept on while sleeping—shaded his eyes, so that Bob’s view was not as good as he would have liked to have it. So far as Bob could discover, not a shadow of guilt crossed Ah Sin’s face. Thrusting one hand into the breast of his blouse he drew out the mate to the chopstick Bob was holding, a grateful grin split his countenance, and he caught the piece of ebony out of Bob’s hand.

“Me losee um, huh?” he chuckled. “My no savvy how me losee um.”

“Go up the hatch to the periscope room,” ordered Bob.

If Ah Sin was surprised at the command he cloaked his feelings admirably.

Without a word he left the torpedo room, climbed to the deck above, and gained the periscope chamber. Bob pounded on the door of Glennie’s quarters, and the ensign quickly opened the door.

“What’s wanted?” he asked.

“Take this Chinaman in there with you, Mr. Glennie,” said Bob, “and watch him.”

“What’s he been doing?”

“I don’t know that he’s been doing anything. I just want him watched, that’s all, and you can do it better than any one else.”

Glennie stared for a moment, then jerked the Chinaman inside and closed the door.

As Bob turned away, he was conscious of the steady song of the cylinders. Again the motor had taken up its cycle properly—proof that the gasoline secured by Dick in Port of Spain was of the right sort.

“I’ll take the wheel, Speake,” said Bob. “Go to the torpedo room and turn in.”

“What was wrong with the motor?” queried Speake, as he gave up the wheel.

“Water in the carburetor.”

“Chink put it there?”

“Why should he do that?” returned Bob.

“That’s too much for me, Bob, unless he did it by mistake, same as he exploded the gas in that reserve tank.”

“I don’t know how the water got in the tank, Speake, and it may have been accident quite as much as design.”

Speake left Bob to his lonely vigil. The gleam of the little searchlight, reaching out ahead of the submarine, flung an odd picture on the periscope mirror. The edges of the mirror were shrouded in darkness, out of which jumped the smooth, oily billows. The waves flashed like gold in the pencil of light.

Bob, holding the Grampus to her course, looked into the periscope absently. He was thinking of the motor’s recent trouble, and of the chopstick lying by the gasoline tank, turning both over in his mind and wondering aimlessly.

Suddenly he lifted his head. An odd note was mixing itself with the croon of the motor and the whir of the ventilator fans. The noise was not caused by anything aboard the submarine; of that Bob was positive. It was like the thrashing of a large propeller, growing rapidly in volume as Bob listened.

Under water sounds are carried far. The noise Bob heard was caught by the submerged hulk of the Grampus and reëchoed as by a sounding board.

“Half speed, Dick,” he called through the engine-room tube.

As the pace slackened, Bob’s eyes again sought the periscope mirror. Abruptly, out of the gloom that walled in the glow of the searchlight, rushed a steamer, its blotted outline crossing directly the submarine’s course. There were lights along the steamer’s rail, but it was plain her lookouts were asleep or they would have seen the Grampus’ searchlight.

Instantly the young fellow was stirred into strenuous activity.

“Full speed astern—on your life!” he shouted to Dick.

At the same time Bob put the wheel over, hoping to make a turn and get the Grampus on a parallel course with the steamer.

But there was not room, nor time, enough for the turn. Unless the motor stayed the Grampus she was bound to crash into the other vessel.

Dick, however, got the propeller to turning the other way just at the critical moment. The speed of the submarine slackened in answer to the reverse pull, and the stern of the steamer swung by into the gloom with a margin of scarce a dozen feet, leaving the Grampus bobbing in her troubled wake.

“All right now, Dick,” called Bob, in a voice that shook somewhat. “Drive her ahead.”

“What was wrong?” inquired Dick.

“We just missed a collision with a steamer. Your quick work saved us.”

Dick gave a long whistle, and went on with his work. “A miss is as good as a hundred fathoms, sometimes,” he answered lightly.

The ringing orders and quick work with the engine had aroused none of the sleepers. Carl could be heard babbling excitedly in the tank room, but otherwise the ship’s complement was quiet.

It was with a distinct feeling of relief that Bob caught the first gleam of day as it was reflected by the periscope. As the morning advanced and brightened, he raised a black smudge, as of steamer smoke, on the port quarter. The smoke was bearing along in the direction the submarine was going, and Bob wondered if that was the steamer they had barely missed running into during the night.

Gaines relieved Dick, Clackett took Carl’s place, and Speake came after Ah Sin and ordered him below to get breakfast. When the Chinaman was fairly at work, Speake returned to the engine room and took the wheel. Glennie showed himself when breakfast was ready, and he, Bob, Dick, Carl, and Speake ate their breakfast in the periscope room.

“We must be off British Guiana,” remarked Glennie, stirring the condensed milk and sugar into his coffee. “Will you put in at Georgetown, Mr. Steele?”

“We won’t have to do that, now that we’ve picked you up at Port of Spain,” replied Bob. “We’ve got to make quick time to the Amazon.”

“Iss dot shdeamer der vone ve come pooty near running indo lasdt night?” queried Carl, taking a look into the periscope.

“It’s about an even guess whether it is or not.”

As Sin, who happened to be in the room, took a look at the periscope for himself.

“Did we come near having a collision last night?” queried Glennie, looking up quickly.

Bob, who wished to be agreeable, narrated the incident.

“We made a lucky miss of it,” remarked the ensign, when Bob had finished. “I’ve no desire to go to the bottom in a steel sarcophagus like the Grampus. Strange I slept through it all, but I was tired, and I suppose I slept rather sounder than usual. That chink,” he added, putting down his cup, “is a poor coffee maker. Or is it the coffee itself that tastes so rank?”

“It’s poor stuff,” spoke up Speake, “an’ I was jest goin’ to say something about the taste. The chink did better yesterday than he’s doin’ this mornin’.”

“Id purns ven id goes town, like id vas a torchlight brocession,” observed Carl luminously. “I don’d like dot, but I vas hungry, so I trink it. Whoosh!”

“It’s certainly hot and bitter,” said Bob, and put down his cup after two or three swallows.

“That steamer is gettin’ closer to us, Bob,” announced Speake, fumbling with the wheel and looking at the periscope.

“Steady, there, Speake!” cautioned Bob.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” muttered Speake, “but my nerves are all in a quiver. She’s small, that steamer; one funnel, black, with a red band. I don’t jest recollect what line—that—is.”

He drawled out the last words.

“Py Jove!” said Carl; “I feel sick py der shdomach, und eferyt’ing iss virling und virling.”

“I’m dizzy, too!” put in Dick.

“And I,” murmured Glennie, setting aside his plate and empty cup. “I—I believe I’ll lie down.”

He got up from the stool on which he was sitting, and floundered to the tap of the locker. Pushing a hand around to his hip pocket, he drew out a revolver that interfered with his comfort, dropped it on the floor, and fell back limply.

Dick tried to get to his feet, but his limbs gave out, and he fell sprawling upon Carl. At the same moment Carl straightened out with a gasp, and Speake let go of the wheel and pitched forward to his knees. There he swayed unsteadily for an instant, trying to speak, but the effort was beyond him, and he slowly crumpled downward.

A horrible sensation of helplessness was growing upon Bob, and with it there dawned on his mind a hazy suspicion of villainous work. He struggled upright and staggered to the wheel.

“Gaines!” he called huskily through the motor-room tube.

No answer was returned. Glennie floundered up on one knee.

“What—in the fiend’s—name—is the matter?” he gasped chokingly.

“Clackett!” cried Bob, through the tank-room tube.

Still there was no answer. At just that moment, when Bob was positively sure that all on the ship were caught in the awful spell, Ah Sin shambled through the door.

With all his failing strength Bob flung himself on the Chinaman. Before Ah Sin could dodge out of the way Bob’s arms went round him and his slouch hat was jerked off.

With the hat came the long queue, leaving Ah Sin’s closely cropped head in plain sight.

“T—Tolo!” gurgled Glennie, a wild, incredulous look crossing his face.

He made a superhuman effort to get off the locker, but the last particle of strength left him in a flash, and he rolled backward.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
RUBBING ELBOWS WITH DEATH.

Bob had neither the time nor the strength to manifest any surprise over the startling revelation made by Glennie. Not only that, but his brain was in such a condition it was well-nigh incapable of surprise.

In that critical moment when he felt a terrifying helplessness surely but steadily creeping over him, he centered every effort on the attempt to make Ah Sin a prisoner.

Swiftly as a lightning flash, the idea struck through Bob’s brain that the Chinaman had all to do with the baffling situation aboard the Grampus. If Bob could drag him down and secure him he felt that, at a later moment, the treacherous Celestial might be dealt with as his evil deeds justified.

But the work he had mapped out for himself exceeded his powers. There was none to come to his aid. Below, in the tank room and motor room, was a silence undisturbed by human voice or movement, and there, in the periscope chamber, the only noise to be heard was the deep breathing of Bob’s unconscious friends and the rattling sounds of the scuffle going forward between the young motorist and Ah Sin.

The slouch hat and the false queue were kicked into one corner. Ah Sin’s long, lean fingers were gripping Bob’s throat. There was no look of hate, or anger, or even of determination in the Chinaman’s face; the expression was blank and saturnine, as though he was merely a tool, operated by wires like a puppet and carrying out the will of some one in high authority.

Suddenly, putting forth all his strength, Ah Sin lifted Bob by the throat and threw him bodily across Speake and against the edge of the locker. Bob tried to rise, but found it impossible.

The awful weakness held him in thrall and was fastening gyves upon his wrists. Soon he would be utterly helpless, like those lying around him, and what would Ah Sin then do to the Grampus?

A spasm of alarm and apprehension rushed through the young motorist. Was this to be the end of the submarine’s voyage? Was the sale of the boat to the government destined never to be consummated?

Vaguely Bob thought of Captain Nemo, junior, lying sick in that house in Belize, of his unswerving confidence in the king of the motor boys, and of his tremendous disappointment if anything happened to the submarine during her daring cruise.

All this brought every ounce of Bob’s failing strength back to him. He shoved his hand along the side of the locker and twined his fingers about the grip of the revolver dropped by Glennie; then, with a despairing effort, he lifted himself on one elbow and again directed his gaze at the Chinaman.

Ah Sin had not been idle. He was holding something in his hand—a round object from which hung a long, black string. The Chinaman was lighting a match and touching the flame to the end of the string.

Bob could not see very distinctly, for everything in the periscope chamber, even the chamber itself, was reeling about him in fantastic lines.

The glow at the end of the black string sputtered and hissed. Stepping over to one corner, Ah Sin placed the round object on the floor with exceeding care, pulling out the string so that it lay in a straight line, the burning end pointed toward the center of the room.

For a moment Ah Sin knelt and stared. His face was still inscrutable, his eyes showing nothing more than a mild interest in his fiendish work.

A bomb!

The realization broke over Bob’s benumbed brain like a thunderclap.

Ah Sin was seeking to blow up the submarine, annihilating not only the boat, but those aboard as well.

On Bob alone depended the salvation of the Grampus and her crew. And he was almost helpless in the grip of the baneful spell that had fallen over every one on board, with the exception of the Chinaman!

Bob lifted the revolver unsteadily. A report rang out, sending wild echoes clattering through the steel hull.

The bullet missed the kneeling Chinaman, struck clanging against the curved iron plates, glanced against the bulkhead above the locker, and dropped flattened and harmless at the side of Glennie.

Owing to Bob’s unsteady hand, the Chinaman had escaped the bit of lead, but he was startled and frightened. Leaping up he whirled and peered at Bob. The latter still clutched the revolver, but his hand swayed back and forth as he leveled it.

Ah Sin made a quick jump toward Bob, evidently with the intention of disarming him; but there was something in the lad’s wide, straining eyes that caused him to change his mind. Swerving aside he rushed at the ladder, mounted swiftly, and disappeared through the hatch.

With a fierce effort Bob concentrated his wandering wits upon the bomb. Someway, somehow, he must reach the infernal machine and extinguish the fuse.

Dropping the revolver, he rolled over and over, a lurch of the boat, running erratically with no guiding hand at either wheel or motor, helping him to reach the foot of the periscope table.

With the utmost difficulty he caught the legs of the rigidly secured table and pulled himself to his knees. The cup, from which he had taken only a few swallows of coffee, stood on a floor just below the end of the table, and not more than a foot from the burning fuse. By a miracle the cup had not been overturned.

For him to reach the fuse in his weakened condition was impossible; but, if he could regain his feet and kick the cup over the coffee that remained in it might quench the fire of the fuse.

Three times he endeavored to draw himself erect by means of the table, but succeeded only in dropping backward as though pushed by a heavy, resistless hand. But the fourth time he managed to remain upright, trembling with the strain he had put upon himself.

It seemed a trifling thing to overset the coffee cup, but Bob Steele had never planned a harder task.

There are but few things in this life, however, that will not yield to pluck and determination, and fortune favored Bob in his grave fight.

The Grampus pitched forward, rising aft and making a steep incline of the floor. Bob’s feet slipped, and he lost his hold on the table. As he came heavily down he shot against a stool, which was overturned and upset the cup. The liquid in the cup had slopped over the sides, and with the overturning a miniature wave of brown rolled along the inclined floor.

There followed a hiss as it engulfed the tiny blaze at the end of the fuse, and then a little spiral of smoke eddied upward.

This much Bob saw, and a fierce exultation ran through him. The bomb was harmless—but where was Ah Sin? Would he not come back, discover what Bob had accomplished, and again set a match to the fuse?’

This might happen, but there was nothing Bob Steele could do to prevent it.

He had taken only a few swallows of the coffee, and to this, and to his superior powers of endurance, was due the fact that he had kept his senses and a remnant of his strength long enough to accomplish what he had.

But now a wave of darkness rolled over him. As unconscious of what was taking place around him as he was helpless to prevent further disaster, his head fell back and he lay as one dead among his silent and motionless companions.

CHAPTER XL.
A DIVE FOR SAFETY.

As Bob was the last one to lose his senses, so he was the first to recover. And here again his superior endurance must have scored in his favor. Always in the pink of physical condition, and striving constantly to keep himself so, his powers of recuperation were quick to react and reassert themselves.

He sat up, dazed and bewildered, and was some moments in picking up the chain of events where it had been dropped.

By degrees he lived over the events that immediately preceded his lapse into unconsciousness, and thoughts of the treacherous Ah Sin brought him staggering to his feet.

The Grampus was yawing and tumbling about in the waves, completely at the mercy of wind and currents. Seizing the wheel, Bob brought the submarine to her course and lashed the wheel with his twisted handkerchief.

Pausing by the foot of the ladder he looked up into the conning tower. The hatch was open.

What had become of the Chinaman he asked himself. Had he, confident that the boat would be blown up, gained the deck and thrown himself into the sea? Bob had heard of fanatics of that sort—carrying out orders given by a higher power and then immolating themselves on the altar of what they supposed to be their duty.

The Japs were noted for self-sacrifices of that kind, and Ah Sin was not a Chinaman, but a little yellow man from the land of the mikado.

How long Bob had remained unconscious he had no means of knowing.

Resolved to discover what had become of the supposed Chinaman at all hazards, Bob climbed laboriously up the ladder. The cool, salt air, pouring down the hatch, served still further to revive him and bring back his strength.

At last, when he braced himself in the opening and was able to cast a sweeping glance over the waves, the sight unrolled before him brought a startled exclamation to his lips.

A cable’s length from the submarine was a dory manned by smartly uniformed yellow sailors. Hove to, half a dozen fathoms beyond the dory, was the steamer with the black funnel and the red band, her port rail lined with figures that were evidently watching the Grampus. Between the dory and the submarine was a swimming figure, which Bob had little difficulty in recognizing as being that of Tolo, otherwise Ah Sin.

Tolo was swimming and looking behind, and the eyes of those in the dory were on the Grampus, the men at the oars turning their heads to look over their shoulders.

It seemed plain that they were expecting an explosion, and that they were hurrying to get Tolo out of the way of it.

Bob’s blood ran cold as he thought of the heinous plot that had so nearly been carried out by the disguised Japanese. Policy was back of the murderous plan, but was it a policy dictated by a powerful nation, or merely by a set of misguided men, acting on their own accord?

The young motorist had no time to debate this point. A shout of consternation greeted his appearance at the conning-tower hatch. The officer in the dory spoke to his men, and all turned their faces the other way and bent their backs to the oars.

It flashed over Bob, in a twinkling, that the crew from the steamer were still of the opinion that they could destroy the submarine, and that they were hastening to get aboard the craft in order to carry out their nefarious designs.

Without losing a moment, Bob drew back into the tower and closed and barred the hatch. Lurching down the ladder he called desperately to his companions. Speake and Dick were sitting up, staring blankly at each other. When Bob appeared they fixed their bewildered eyes on him.

“Wake up!” cried Bob, springing to Dick and shaking him vigorously. “Get your wits together, Dick, and be quick about it.”

“There was dope in that coffee,” mumbled Dick.

“That’s right,” seconded Speake, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

“Never mind that now,” went on Bob hurriedly. “Enemies are upon us! That steamer you saw in the periscope, Speake, is hove to a little way from us, and our motor is slowed until we have scarcely steerageway. A boat is coming toward the Grampus, and we shall be boarded before you can say Jack Robinson. We’ve got to make a dive for safety. Rouse yourselves, both of you! To the motor, Dick! Speake, attend to the tanks—fill them for a twenty-foot submersion. You——”

Something struck against the side of the submarine, and a jar followed as of some one springing to the deck. “There they are!” shouted Bob. “Below with you—quick!”

Speake and Dick got unsteadily to their feet. Bob’s ominous words alarmed them, and did more than anything else to clear the fog from their minds. Making their way stumblingly through the door, they lowered themselves down the hatch.

Several more ringing thumps on the deck proved to Bob that others had come aboard. Presently there was a banging on the hatch cover.

“Open!” cried a muffled voice with a queer foreign intonation. “Open so that we can talk!”

“Who are you?” roared Bob, his voice sounding like thunder in the confined space.

“Young Samurai, patriots of Nippon, Sons of the Rising Sun, Independent Protectors of the Kingdom. Open!”

Bob forced his way up the ladder again. Slant eyes were pressed against the lunettes and met his.

Already, however, water was entering the ballast tanks, and the Grampus was beginning to settle.

“Our flag is the Stars and Stripes,” yelled Bob, shaking his fist at the eyes on the other side of the thick glass, “and you dare not lay a hand on us! If your mikado knew what you were about——”

“Our mikado knows nothing,” interrupted a voice. “We——”

The fact that the submarine was diving came suddenly home to those on the deck. Already the waves were creaming over the curved plates, drawn into a flurry by the suction as the boat went down.

The eyes disappeared from the lunettes, and the Japanese scrambled for their boat. Another moment and the conning tower was submerged and Bob could hear the waters gurgling over the hatch cover.

Sliding down to the periscope room he looked into the periscope. Some of the sailors were in the water, and others, in the boat, were desperately busy getting them aboard. For a moment only Bob was able to use the periscope, and then the waters closed about the ball, the valves protecting the ball from the inrush of water closed, and the Grampus was more than fifteen feet down.

“Twenty feet, mate!” came the voice of Dick.

“That will do, Speake,” called Bob.

The tanks were closed.

“Drive her ahead, Dick!” cried Bob.

The motor was speeded up and the Grampus hustled onward below the surface. While Bob unlashed the wheel and brought the boat more directly into her course, a loud boom and a splash were heard.

“What’s that?” demanded Speake.

“The steamer is firing at us,” answered Bob.

“Let ’em shoot,” laughed Dick. “A heap of good it will do them to drop shot into the sea.”

“How’s Gaines, Dick?”

“Coming along full and by, forty knots. He’s sitting up and beginning to take notice.”

“How about Clackett, Speake?”

“He jest asked me to tell him where he was,” replied Speake, “so I guess he’ll soon be able to take hold.”

“Good! We’re coming out of this a whole lot better than I had dared to hope.”

“Dot’s righdt,” spoke up Carl, coming suddenly to a sitting posture.

“How do you feel, old chap?” asked Bob.

“I peen lying dere on my back trying to guess id oudt,” Carl answered.

“That’s about the way with me, Mr. Steele,” said Glennie, turning over on his side so he could face Bob. “Where are we?”

“We’re twenty feet down and headed for the delta of the Amazon, Mr. Glennie.”

“Didn’t you lose consciousness, like the rest of us?”

“Yes; but I wasn’t out of my head so long. I was the last to go and the first to come to.”

“How do you account for that?”

Glennie sat up on the locker, as he put the question, and began rubbing his head.

“I didn’t drink so much of that bitter coffee as the rest of you did,” replied Bob.

“That’s right,” muttered Glennie; “I was forgetting about the coffee. It was drugged—it must have been.”

“Yah, so helup me!” growled Carl. “Der Chinaman vas oop to some funny bizness, und he has peen efer since he come apoardt der boat. Ve ought to haf droon him oferpoard on cheneral brinciples.”

“Where’s Ah Sin now?” queried Glennie, looking around the room expectantly.

“The last I saw of him,” said Bob, “he was in the water swimming toward a small boat.”

Glennie started to his feet, astounded.

“In the water?” he echoed. “Do you mean to say you allowed the scoundrel to get away, Mr. Steele? And all the time you knew just how much his presence meant to me!”

Bob gazed fixedly at the ensign.

“Your head must still be troubled with that dope the supposed Chinaman put in the coffee,” said he calmly. “It was lucky that I was able to do what I did, and, as for the Chinaman getting away, I could no more help that than any of the rest of you. But it was a lucky thing for us that he did get away, I can tell you that.”

“Vat bizness you got finding some fault mit Bob Steele?” snapped Carl, making a truculent move in Glennie’s direction. “You vas a bassencher—don’d forged dot—und Bob vas der skipper. Ve ought to call him gaptain, only he von’t allow id; but, all der same, he iss der gaptain oof der boat, und you vill keep schtill oder I vill pat you on der back mit mein fist. Yah, so, Misder Glennie!”

“That will do, Carl,” said Bob. “Draw back into your shell now, and keep still yourself. I can handle my own end with Mr. Glennie.”

Carl flung off to the other side of the room, tramping heavily to show his impatience and disgust.

“I presume,” said the ensign reflectively, “that you did the best you could, Mr. Steele, so I have no fault to find with you. But you understand that Ah Sin was my only hope for locating those important papers in Para.”

Bob stared, wondering if Glennie had forgotten the discovery he had made just before he had lapsed into unconsciousness.

“I had a mighty queer dream about that Chinaman,” pursued Glennie. “I thought you had a fight with him, Bob, and that, during the scuffle, his old slouch hat came off, and the queue along with it. And I was under the impression that Ah Sin wasn’t a Chinaman at all, but Tolo, that rascally Jap.”

“That wasn’t a dream, Mr. Glennie,” answered Bob, “but is literally what took place.”

“Is that a fact?” cried the ensign.

“Look ad here vonce!” called Carl.

He had picked up the slouch hat and the attached queue and placed them on his head.

“Great Cæsar!” muttered Glennie, reeling back against the wall. “How I’ve been fooled! And I never recognized the scoundrel in his chink make-up! Well, I guess I deserve all the bad luck that’s coming my way. I’ve been a dunderhead ever since the Seminole dropped me in La Guayra.”

“Whoosh!” exclaimed Carl disgustedly, pulling off the hat and pigtail and throwing them into the locker. “I don’d like der shmell oof der t’ings.” He dropped the locker lid and turned away. “Vat’s dis, hey?” he inquired, picking up the bomb.

CHAPTER XLI.
PUTTING TWO AND TWO TOGETHER.

“That,” said Bob, “is a bomb. While I lay on the floor, all but helpless, the disguised Jap set fire to the fuse and planted the bomb in the corner.”

Glennie stared aghast. Carl mumbled to himself, and very carefully returned the bomb to the place where he had found it.

“He vas a blackguard!” growled Carl, backing away from the bomb and shaking his fist at it. “Der sgoundrel vould haf plowed us py some smidereens. I don’d like Chaps any more as I do shinks.”

“You must be mistaken!” gasped Glennie. “Either that, or else Tolo is a madman! Why, the explosion of that bomb would have wrecked the submarine and killed us all.”

The ensign shuddered.

“It would have been barbarous!” he went on, worked up by the enormity of the crime that had been planned. “As an act of war, it would have been savage enough, in all conscience, but here we are at peace with all the world, and under the protection of Old Glory!”

“I can’t help that, Glennie,” said Bob grimly. “We’ve got to take the facts as we find them. I managed to get hands on the revolver you dropped, and had strength enough to fire one shot. The bullet missed its mark, and Tolo jumped up and started for me. But I guess the revolver scared him off, for he whirled around before he got very close and darted up the conning-tower ladder.”

“He left the fuse burning?”

“Yes; and evidently expected a blowup.”

“Why wasn’t there a blowup?”

“Well, the coffee that had got me into trouble got us all out of it. I fell, knocked over a stool, the stool knocked over the cup, and the coffee was spilled out and flowed over the burning fuse.”

“That’s the most remarkable thing I ever heard!” declared Glennie.

“Bob Steele’s luck,” chuckled Carl. “I vould radder be mit Bob, und haf a biece oof his luck, dan any blace vat I know. Ven he has some goot fordunes, he has to pass dem aroundt to der fellers vat iss mit him—vich means me, for I vas alvays aroundt.”

“Go on, Mr. Steele,” said Glennie. “What happened after that?”

Bob, attending to his steering and keeping an eye on the periscope, told how he had lost consciousness for a few moments, had revived, lashed the wheel, and climbed to the hatch. The rest, including how he, Dick, and Speake had made a dive for safety, came rapidly and in the fewest possible words.

“From all of which it appears,” remarked Glennie quietly, when the recital was done, “that we owe our lives to Bob Steele. But I can’t understand this Tolo business. Why was he playing the part of a chink?”

“So you wouldn’t know him,” said Bob, “and so he could still be with you.”

“But what was the use?”

“That seems plain,” went on Bob, wondering a little at the ensign’s failure to see the game that had been attempted. “As I figure it, Mr. Glennie, there is a Japanese secret society consisting of a number of misguided young men who call themselves Sons of the Rising Sun. Their government does not sanction their acts, and presumably knows nothing about them. These Independent Protectors of the Kingdom have heard of this wonderful submarine ship invented by Captain Nemo, junior, and they are well fitted to understand its possibilities in time of war.”

“Granting all that, just what has it to do with the actions of Tolo?”

“I’m coming to that. Tolo, I take it, is a member of the Young Samurai Society. No doubt the society has had spies in Central and South America. These spies reported that the Grampus had been sold to the United States government, conditional upon her making a safe passage around the Horn and up the western coast to Mare Island. I don’t suppose that the Sons of the Rising Sun were at all pleased with this information. They are enthusiasts, and probably don’t care a rap for their own lives, or for the lives of any other people, so long as they can do a good stroke of work for Nippon.”

“But Tolo,” put in the ensign impatiently, “what of him?”

“Probably, too,” continued Bob, “it was known that the Seminole had dropped you at La Guayra, and that you were to accompany the submarine on her long cruise. Tolo was commissioned to watch you, get aboard the submarine if possible, make sketches, and then destroy her.”

“But do you consider what a crime that amounts to? That it is virtually an act of war and might embroil two countries?”

“It is an act of piracy, Mr. Glennie. The steamer from which the Japs came was not flying the Japanese flag, nor any other flag, so far as I could see. They’re working on their own hook.”

“Then they are liable to be caught and punished by their own government!”

“Of course; but the Sons of the Rising Sun have the bit in their own teeth and are going their own pace. I’ll bet something handsome they’d sacrifice their steamer and their own lives, into the bargain, if they could be sure of destroying the Grampus. The Japs are fanatics on the subject of patriotism—everybody knows that. But to go on with Tolo. He hired out to you, found a chance to steal your dispatches, and thought advisable to take them. Probably he thought they contained information of value to the Young Samurai. After that he disguised himself as a Chinaman—not a difficult task for a Jap—and called on us in the harbor at Port of Spain. He was cunning enough to hand you that yarn about knowing Tolo, and to hang out regarding the fifty dollars so that he could get you to take him down the coast to the Amazon. On the way, Tolo was snooping around and learning all he could about the boat. The blowing up of the gasoline tank was probably an accident, but mixing water with our fuel was done with a purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“To delay us, and make it possible for the steamer to come near. This morning Tolo must have heard how we had narrowly escaped running the steamer down during the night, and I am sure he knew the steamer was hanging around our course just before he went down to get breakfast. He had come aboard the Grampus equipped with his bomb and his drugs, and it’s a wonder his scoundrelly plans did not carry. Of course,” Bob added, after a long silence, “I am only putting two and two together, and making a guess. The guess may be close to the truth, or wide of it, but that’s the way I size up the facts that have come to us.”

“You haf hit der nail righdt on der head!” declared Carl. “Der Sons of der Rising Sun vas afder us, aber dey vill findt dot ve don’d vas ashleep. Ve’re a leedle punch of badriots ourseluf, you bed you, und an American feller has got id ofer der Chap like anyding.”

Carl puffed out his chest and slapped his wishbone.

“I am sure you have made a good guess, Mr. Steele,” said Glennie, “and the way you have argued the thing out is mighty convincing. It shows us what we’re up against during this cruise, and I’m wondering why the captain of the Seminole didn’t tip me off.”

“It’s likely he didn’t know anything about these Sons of the Rising Sun,” replied Bob. “We’ve only been able to get a line on them by facing considerable danger, and taking a lot of hard knocks.”

“Ven dose leedle fellers whipped Rooshia,” put in Carl, “dey got puffed oop like I can’t tell. Dere is some chips on deir shoulters all der time now, und they ought to be knocked off.”

“Don’t make a common mistake, Mr. Pretzel,” cautioned Glennie. “The Japanese government has always been a good friend of the United States, and you know there are hotheads in Japan just as there are in our own country. But both governments are on friendly terms and will always be so. The mikado’s government doesn’t know what these Sons of the Rising Sun are doing, so what happens is just a little private war between them and us, with the Grampus as the bone of contention.”

“Vell,” and Carl wagged his head decidedly, “ve got our teet’ on der pone und dey can’t shake us loose.”

“That’s right,” laughed Bob.

“Mr. Pretzel is a jingo,” said Glennie. “But what am I to do about those dispatches?”

“We’ll go right on to the Amazon and Para. When we get there, Mr. Glennie, I’d advise you to make a clean breast of everything to Mr. Brigham. Perhaps he can help you get hold of the papers in some way.”

The ensign shook his head gloomily. “I see what will happen to me,” he muttered, “but I guess I can face the music, all right. I’m sorry for the governor, though, when the news gets to Boston.”

At this moment Speake came in and began clearing up the scattered tin dishes that had been used in serving the morning meal. He reported Gaines and Clackett as feeling all right, and actively engaged in their duties.

Bob ordered the ballast tanks emptied so as to bring the submarine within a dozen feet of the surface. At this depth the periscope ball cleared the waves, the automatic valves opened, and those in the periscope room were able to take a look at the surface of the sea. The steamer was nowhere in sight—there was not even a smudge of smoke on the horizon.

The Grampus was lifted further until the conning tower was clear of the waves. Speake took the wheel, Bob studied the chart and gave him the course, and then turned in for a little sleep. Dick and Carl likewise sought a little rest; and while the king of the motor boys and his chums slept, the submarine plowed onward toward Brazil at a swift pace.

CHAPTER XLII.
UNDER THE AMAZON.

Three days and nights of uneventful traveling brought the Grampus to Santa Rosa Bay directly in the great mouth of the Amazon. Para River, to the south, is not generally considered as an arm of the river, although unquestionably it forms a part of the vast delta.

The mouth of the Amazon Bob knew to be two hundred miles wide, and full twenty-seven fathoms deep. It is full of islands, and a bar, running seaward from one of these islands, caused the Grampus an unforeseen delay.

Feeling positive that the mysterious steamer had reached the Amazon ahead of them, or that she was perhaps watching along the coast, most of the latter part of the submarine’s journey toward Para had been made under water. The boat was submerged when she reached the Amazon, and the run across Santa Rosa Bay was by periscope alone.

Bob saw the little rocky island, whitened with sea birds, and supposed he was giving it a wide berth. He did not suspect the presence of the bar, and the chart, most unaccountably, did not show it.

The first news of trouble was contained in an announcement by Gaines, from the motor room.

“Propeller’s out of commission, Bob.”

This was alarming information. With the propeller useless, the submarine would drift helplessly in the current unless stoutly anchored.

Quickly as possible the ballast tanks were emptied and the boat brought to the surface. Bob, turning the wheel over to Speake, rushed into the conning tower, threw open the hatch, and made a survey of the situation.

There were no boats of any kind in the vicinity of the Grampus, and consequently no hope of being towed into safe quarters while repairs were being made. Bob, when he broke out of the hatch, was confidently expecting to find the submarine being whirled out to sea by the swift current, but, to his surprise, the boat was setting in toward a small cove of the island. He got out on the deck for the purpose of making further observations. Dick and Glennie followed him.

“What do you make out, mate?” queried Dick. “From the looks of things, we’re floating upstream.”

“We’re in a back-set of the current,” Bob answered, studying the river in the neighborhood of the island. “That uplift of rocks parts the stream, sends the current around the upper part at sharp angles, and below, where we are, the current sucks back inshore.”

“A dangerous coast to run into,” remarked Glennie.

“That cove looks like a quiet place for shipping a new propeller,” said Bob.

“You ought to have a dry dock for that, hadn’t you?”

“That would be fine—but we haven’t got it. The next best thing is to shift all the weight forward and throw the propeller out of water. We can do that if our forward anchor can find holding ground on the bottom of the cove.”

Bob stepped back to the conning tower. “Speake!” he called. “Send Clackett to the torpedo room, and tell him to let go the forward anchor as soon as I give the word. Carl might go down and help. When I give the word, I want the anchor dropped at once!”

Speake could be heard talking through the tank-room tube. Bob, standing by the tower, watched sharply while the submarine drifted closer and closer to the rocks. The cove did not measure more than fifty feet across at its mouth, and was semicircular in shape, and not more than fifty feet wide, measuring from a line drawn between the rocky headlands at the entrance. The shore was buttressed by high bowlders.

The current was bearing the submarine into the cove midway between the headlands—the line of drift being straight toward the farthest point inland.

Dick had a hand lead, and forward at the bow he heaved it constantly.

“Mark three!” he cried.

“Eighteen feet,” said Glennie. “How much do you draw, Mr. Steele?”

“We ought to have ten feet,” answered Bob. “Sharp with it, Dick,” he added anxiously. “We must get as close inshore as we can.”

“Quarter less three!” called Dick.

“Sixteen and a half,” muttered Glennie; “shoaling rapidly. You’d better get that mud hook down, Mr. Steele.”

“Two and a half!” announced Dick, then: “Two and a quarter!” and finally: “Mark twain!”

Bob was not as close to the shore as he wanted to be, but twelve feet was as little water as he dared keep under the Grampus.

“Let go the anchor!” he yelled to Speake.

Speake promptly repeated the order, and only a very short scope of cable was run out.

The nose of the submarine was brought up short and the stern moved around into the cove as though on a pivot.

“The anchor’s not fast!” cried Glennie. “It’s dragging!”

Bob had already discovered that. The anchor afforded sufficient resistance to keep the bow of the boat toward the entrance of the cove, but they were sliding stern first farther into the shoaling waters.

Dick hurried aft and began heaving the lead close to the stern. “Two and a half!” he cried.

“Great guns!” exclaimed Glennie. “Wouldn’t that knock you? It’s deepening!”

“Mark three!” shouted Dick.

“Three fathoms,” murmured Glennie, “and within two jumps of shore! The rocks must lie steep-to. The current’s responsible for that.”

The pull of the anchor continued to draw the boat around so that she was drifting broadside on.

“Deep four!” reported Dick, and began coiling up the line. The submarine was rubbing against the rocks, and there was no room to cast.

“Good luck,” said Bob gleefully, “even if it does come out of a damaged propeller. We can pass a couple of cables ashore and tie up to the rocks. On deck, Speake!” he called through the hatch. “There’s some old hose and canvas in the storeroom, and you, and Clackett and Gaines had better bring it up. Fetch a couple of cables at the same time.”

Bob leaped to a shelf notched out of one of the rocks, climbed to the top of the bowlder, and picked out the stones most convenient for mooring. When the cables were brought up and bent to their stanchions, the spare ends were passed ashore. While he was making them fast, Clackett, Gaines, Speake, and Carl were festooning the old hose over the submarine’s side and padding the plates with canvas blankets as fenders against the jagged rocks.

“Now,” called Bob, talking from the top of a bowlder and looking down on the deck of the Grampus, “the next thing is to weight the forward part of the boat so that the propeller will be thrown up clear of the water. Move everything possible from aft. If the anchor has taken hold, a little pulling on the chain may help. If this don’t fill the bill, then we’ll pile rocks on the bow and force it under that way. Now, then, get busy, all hands.”

Speake, Carl, Gaines, and Clackett went below. Bob began tossing loose stones to Dick, and he built them up forward of the flagstaff, passing ropes around the pile in order to hold it to the deck when the boat began to cant forward.

By degrees the bow went deeper and deeper, and the stern rose. At last, after some two hours of trying work, the propeller was brought into view. The blades were fairly buried in a mass of ropy seaweed.

Bob gave vent to a relieved laugh.

“It won’t be necessary to ship a new propeller, after all,” said he. “Traveling under the Amazon is hard on the screw. That bar was covered with seaweed, and the propeller twisted itself up in it. Pass a rope aft and secure it to the periscope guys. You can hang to the rope, Dick, slip over the stern, and cut away the grass.”

“Easy enough,” answered Dick, dropping on the deck to pull off his shoes and stockings, and roll up his trousers. “We’ll clear away that propeller in a brace of shakes.”

“While you’re at it,” said Bob, “I’ll scout around the island and see what it looks like. I’ll not be gone long.”

He dropped from the top of the bowlder, and vanished. Glennie looked after him as though he would have liked an invitation to accompany him, and stretch his legs on hard earth, but he did not follow. Instead, he picked up a coil of rope, and began securing an end to one of the wire periscope guys.

“I’ll attend to that, Mr. Glennie,” said Dick, still with an undue emphasis on the “mister.” “You’re an innocent bystander, you know, and are here to look on.”

Glennie dropped the rope, flushed, and drew back. Bob had not asked him to go on the exploring expedition, and now Dick refused to have him render even trifling aid.

“I’m sorry you fellows have taken such a dead set at me,” said Glennie.

“You told us where we stood when you first came off to us from the Port of Spain landing,” returned Dick. “I don’t see that you’ve got any kick coming because we took you at your word.”

Glennie started to say something, but closed his mouth suddenly, and left the words unspoken. Perhaps he was beginning to see where he was at fault.

While he stood by the conning tower, watching Dick move aft with the rope in his hands, a sharp cry came suddenly from among the rocks.

“Dick! Clear the propeller, and sink the boat in——”

It was Bob’s voice; although faint, it was unmistakable, and each word was strangely clear-cut and distinct.

Dick halted and faced about.

“Something’s happening to Bob!” he cried.

The next moment he dropped the rope and started to spring ashore. But Glennie was already on the rocks.

“You heard what he said!” shouted Glennie. “Clear the propeller and sink the boat! I’ll help Steele if he needs help—but your duty is clear.”

The ensign whirled about and jumped from the bowlder. As he disappeared, Dick saw his revolver glistening in his hand.

CHAPTER XLIII.
HAND TO HAND.

From what Bob could see of the island as the Grampus drifted into the cove, and from the further observations which he made while standing on the rocks and helping Dick, he knew that it could not be very extensive. Probably it would have covered an acre of ground, if measured in a square, but its surface was vastly greater than that, inasmuch as it consisted of barren hills and valleys.

Bob’s intention, when he left the submarine, was to climb to the highest point and take a look around. He was still worrying about the mysterious steamer, and the no less mysterious Japs. From what he had heard and read of the Japanese, he understood that dogged persistency was a national trait. If the Sons of the Rising Sun had made up their minds to destroy the submarine, it would take more than one rebuff to discourage them. That they were still on the trail of the Grampus, Bob had not the least doubt, and if they should happen to sight the boat in the cove, and make an attack while the propeller was being cleared, they would stand a fair show of success.

In looking for the steamer Bob did not intend to confine his gaze to seaward, but to give fully as much attention upstream as below.

He had already selected the hill he was going to climb, and picked out the narrow valley that would lead him to its base.

A little scrambling over rough ground brought him to the valley. Projecting rocks, weather-stained and windworn, rose to right and left. Flocks of gulls rose out of them, alarmed by his approach, and winged away across the river.

The valley was not over twenty feet wide, and angled back and forth sharply on its way to the hill. Bob stepped off at a brisk gait, for he would have to be quick if he finished what he had in mind by the time Dick and the rest had cleared the propeller and got the boat once more in trim.

Bob was not expecting any trouble on the island, and, as usual, it was the unexpected that happened.

The flapping of the birds’ wings made a noise that drowned the crunch of his footsteps in the gravel. This, it may be, accounted for the surprise that met him as he rounded a sharp turn, for his approach was not heard, and he came suddenly face to face with a creeping savage. The native was nude, save for a short kirtle that hung from his waist, and he was carrying an ugly-looking spear.

It seemed clear that the fellow was creeping up on the boat. His surprise was as great as Bob’s, and for a brief space both stood staring at each other. Then, as Bob’s gaze wandered farther on along the valley, he saw four other natives, all of whom had been on their hands and knees and had leaped erect the moment the lad presented himself.

Then it was that Bob lifted his voice and shouted the warning heard by Dick and Glennie. Bob did not finish what he was saying, for a suggestive movement of the native’s spear hand made it necessary for him to take quick action to protect himself.

Like lightning he leaped forward, and his fist shot out straight from the shoulder. A grunt was jolted from the lips of the stricken native, and he staggered backward. This caused the hand holding the spear to rise quickly, and the spear point caught in Bob’s leather jacket, which was unbuttoned and flying open.

The native fell backward, keeping a convulsive grip on the spear, and dragging Bob down with him. In a twinkling the other four savages had surrounded Bob and were menacing him with their spears.

The spear points were of steel, ground to a sharp point. They had a greenish, corroded look, which suggested that they had been poisoned. Judging this to be the case, Bob put forth every effort to avoid being pricked or scratched by the flourished weapons.

Seizing the handle of the spear held by the man who had fallen, Bob wrenched it away and swept it around his head in a circle. The other four savages leaped back to the edge of the circle and continued their hostile demonstrations. The fellow on the ground, who evidently possessed a large amount of courage, reached up abruptly and caught hold of the spear.

With exultant shouts, the other four began to close in. Hampered in using the spear, Bob found it necessary to change his tactics. Releasing the weapon, he laid hold of the native to whom it belonged, grabbed him about the waist, and flung him heavily against the foremost of his companions.

The men were all of short stature, although heavily muscled and of great strength. The human missile launched by Bob overset the first of the four advancing Indians, and this man, in his turn, tumbled backward and knocked down another. The remaining two were between Bob and the end of the valley it would be necessary for him to traverse in order to regain the boat.

Flourishing his fists and shouting an angry command for them to clear his path, he leaped directly at them. One of them launched his spear. Bob ducked downward, and the weapon whipped over his head, just grazing his cap.

This unarmed native was the one Bob speedily made up his mind to pass. But again the unexpected happened. As Bob dashed forward a stone gave way under his foot. He sought vainly to recover his balance, and plunged headlong and rolled over and over.

Before he could get up all the natives were upon him. It looked, just at that moment, as though nothing could save him. Yet he did not give up. Rising to his knees, he caught the ankles of one of his foes and jerked his feet out from under him.

A fierce order in an unknown tongue was given, and four figures sprang with murderous celerity to obey it. At that juncture—a critical juncture for Bob Steele—the sharp, incisive note of a revolver rang out. One of the savages, with a cry of pain, stepped backward, dropped his spear, and clasped his right wrist with his left hand.

There followed another shot, accompanied by a sound of running feet in the shingle and the loud voice of Glennie:

“Get away from there, you scoundrels! I’ll give you a taste of more metal if you don’t clear out.”

The second bullet had done no harm, but the natives, not knowing how many men were following Glennie, whirled and made off, one of them picking up the fallen spear as he went.

“Are you hurt, Bob?” panted Glennie, coming to a breathless halt beside Bob.

“Not at all, Glennie,” Bob answered; “but I had a tight squeak of it.”

“Shall we chase those rascals?”

“No,” was the answer as Bob regained his feet; “we’ll make tracks back to the Grampus, and thank our lucky stars that we got out of this as well as we did. There may be a lot more of the Indians hiding among the rocks, and I’ve a notion that their spear points are poisoned. We’ll not give them a chance to dig their spears into us, if we can help it.”

Watching behind cautiously, Bob and Glennie immediately set out on their return to the boat.

“I didn’t think there was a human being anywhere near the island, apart from ourselves,” said Bob. “When those rascals came face to face with me the surprise was mutual—and far from pleasant, so far as I was concerned. Did you hear me yell?”

“That’s what brought me ashore,” said Glennie. “Ferral was bound to come; but I told him he had better carry out orders regarding the ship and let me go. This six-shooter carried the day.”

“And saved my life,” added Bob. “I’ll not forget that, Mr. Glennie.”

A flush of pleasure ran through Glennie’s face. “Bosh!” he exclaimed. “You’d have done the same for me, if our positions had been reversed.”

By that time they were at the place where it was necessary for them to leave the valley and pick their way through the scattered bowlders to the shore of the cove. While they were climbing the rocks, Carl suddenly thrust his head out from behind one of them.

“Hoop!” he cried joyfully. “Id vas Bob, himseluf! Bob, der sighdt of you makes me so habby as I can’d dell!”

“Same here!” chimed in the voice of Dick, as he showed himself beside Carl.

Dick was armed with an old harpoon, and Carl carried a hatchet.

“You’re a nice pair, I must say!” cried Bob. “The last order I gave instructed you to clear the propeller and sink the Grampus.”

“The propeller is cleared, mate,” said Dick; “but you wouldn’t catch Carl and me going to the bottom of the cove in the Grampus until we had found out what became of you. We heard a couple of shots, and nothing could keep us from coming ashore, after that. Who did you mix up with?”

“Five savages. I don’t know whether they live on the island, or whether they came from the river bank. Anyhow, I came front to front with them, and they were creeping in the direction of the boat.”

“Den dey knowed der poat vas in der cove!” said Carl, casting a cautious look behind, in the direction of the valley. “Vas dere more as fife, Bob?”

“I don’t know. Five are all I saw. We’d better get away from here as soon as we can, though, and get up the river to Para.”

A moment later the boys reached the shore of the cove and found Speake unloosening the cables.

“All right, Bob?” called Speake.

“Yes; but in a tearing hurry,” Bob answered. “Is the Grampus ready for sea?”

“She’s as fit as a fiddle! Clackett is putting the stuff below back where it belongs, and we just dumped that load o’ rock off the bow.”

Bob, Dick, Carl, and Glennie dropped on the submarine’s deck. In short order the cables were hauled aboard, coiled, and stowed, and Speake leaped from the rocks and was caught and steadied by Bob as he came down.

Bob got into the tower and signaled the engine room. The motor got busy, and the cheerful splash of the propeller was heard. Slowly the Grampus picked her way out of the cove, those on her deck watching the receding rocks for some sign of the savages. But they saw none.

CHAPTER XLIV.
BOARDED!

In order to reach the arm of the river that led to Para the Grampus had to pass through a little strait known as South Channel, then on by Tucuria and around Cape Magoari. Dick, Carl, and Glennie remained on deck, Dick using a pair of binoculars, and Bob attending to the steering from the top of the tower. They were traversing the tortuous channels without the chart to guide them, and most unexpectedly they found that what they supposed to be South Channel had emptied them out into the river close to the island where Bob had had his recent exciting experience.

“Well, wouldn’t that surprise you?” cried Dick. “Here we are back at our old stamping grounds once more, after racing around for an hour and getting nowhere.”

“Und dere iss der leedle cove!” cried Carl. “Vat a funny pitzness—gedding losdt on der Amazon.”

“We couldn’t have been in South Channel,” said the chagrined Bob.

“This is new country to me,” observed Glennie; “but I looked at the chart early this morning, marked the location of South Channel, and could have sworn we started into it when we left this island.”

“Come below, you fellows,” called Bob disgustedly. “You can take the wheel, Dick, and steer by the periscope while I overhaul the charts. There’s no sense wasting time and gasoline like this.”

Bob dropped down the ladder and the rest followed him.

“We’re mixed up, Gaines,” Bob called through the motor-room tube, “and a pilot who knows the coast would be mighty handy about now. Quarter speed while we study the maps. Dick,” Bob added, “run circles off the island while we get our bearings.”

Bob opened the locker and dug up the chart. Laying it on one of the stools, he examined it, with Carl and Glennie looking over his shoulder.

“Here’s where we are now,” said Bob, sticking a pin in the chart, “and there’s the entrance to South Channel just below Mixiana Island.”

“The passage we got into by mistake,” remarked Glennie, “was that crooked little passage that runs into Mixiana Island, bends around in the shape of a big ‘O,’ and then lets us out again at the same place we went in.”

“Exactly,” agreed Bob.

“It was easy to make the mistake.”

“Easy, yes; but I ought to have been sure. We should have had the chart on deck with us, but I thought I had the thing firmly fixed in my mind.”

“A chart is a hard thing to carry in your mind.”

“I’m beginning to think so myself. Head south by east, Dick,” Bob went on to his chum. “You’ll know the passage we took when you see it. Skip that, and head into the one west of it.”

“Sou’ by east it is, mate,” answered Dick.

“If you wanted to,” suggested Glennie, “you could pass to the north of Mixiana Island and get to Cape Magoari by going around it. It looks to me as though that would be our shortest course.”

“Short, yes; but it would take more time.”

“How so?”

“Well, if we went to the north of Mixiana Island we would be in the open bay, and that pesky Jap steamer may be standing off and on, hoping to get sight of us. In order to avoid that, we should have to run submerged, which would mean no more than half speed, the best we could do. By going through South Channel we won’t need to fear the steamer, and can run on the surface, and put every ounce of our motor’s power into moving ahead.”

“Correct,” said Glennie. “I find that there are a good many things about running a submarine that I have yet to learn.”

Dick gave a grunt as he bent over the periscope table. His face was hidden by the periscope hood, so the disgusted expression which he wore could not be seen.

Dick Ferral did not easily forgive a slight. From the first, Glennie had struck him “on the wrong side,” and it would take time before Dick got over his dislike.

Carl, in this respect, was like Dick. Neither of the boys could ever forget the lordly air assumed by the ensign when he hove to alongside the submarine in the launch. The “mister” which Glennie had imposed upon them still rankled in their bosoms.

Up to that moment off Port of Spain there had been no “misters” on the Grampus. The formality demanded by Glennie had been a strain on the friendly relations of the crew—and perhaps on the crew’s temper as well.

Glennie heard Dick’s grunt, even though he could not see the disgusted expression on his face, and he whirled and stared sharply at Dick’s back.

“Discipline iss going to der dogs on dis ship,” mourned Carl, in mock dejection. “If ve don’d haf more discipline dere is going to be drouple, ain’d it? First t’ing you know, I vill haf to be calling my olt pard Misder Bob, und my odder olt pard Misder Dick, und den if somepody ton’t call me misder, I bet you I preak his head.”

“That will do, Carl,” said Bob, noting the flush that crossed Glennie’s face.

“That’s all right, Mr. Steele,” spoke up the ensign. “I started that, and they’re within their rights, I suppose, when they rub it in. All I can say is that I didn’t understand your method of running this boat. Now, in the navy, we have to have discipline; we have to have our gun crews, our watches, and all that; and we have to insist on a certain amount of respect from subordinates. The admirals require it from the captains, the captains from the commanders, the commanders from the lieutenants, and so on down through the various ranks of commissioned officers. Even a passed midshipman,” and he smiled a bit grimly, “has the pattern always before him, and he is taught to exact his due from all the noncoms. But, as I say, I didn’t understand how matters were when I boarded the Grampus. I—I am sorry I took the stand I did.”

Just how much it cost Glennie to make that apology probably none of the boys, not even Bob, could realize. But he made it right manfully, and Bob stepped toward him and put out his hand.

“Say no more, old fellow,” he cried heartily. “We all of us get out of our course a little, now and then. Before we get through with this cruise we all are going to understand each other a whole lot better. Carl and——”

Bob turned with the intention of making his Dutch chum take the hand he released, but Carl had faded mysteriously out of the periscope room. Whether he expected what was coming, or not, and dodged away to avoid meeting the issue, Bob could only guess.

“Dick,” and Bob turned to his sailor chum, “I want you——”

“Here we are,” cried Dick, “just taking the entrance to South Channel. And it’s the right channel, too, because we slammed right past that other one where we go in and come out the same place.”

Glennie could not fail to note how both Carl and Dick had avoided Bob’s attempt to put him on more friendly footing with them. There was a noticeable constraint in his manner, but he did not allow it to interfere with his stating the desire he had in his head.

“When I came aboard,” he went on, “I believed I was merely the representative of the United States government, that I was to look on, keep hands off, and write up my own log. But I can see very plainly where I can be of service to you, Bob; and I can also see where, by helping you, I can get a much better insight into the capabilities of the Grampus. I should like to have you let me do my part in running the boat. If you want me for quartermaster, I can spell you, or Mr. Ferral; with a little instruction, I could also run the motor, or do the work in the tank room. If it would be any help, I might even learn to cook the meals. All I want is to be useful—and to learn the Grampus from top to bottom, inside and out, as well as you know her.”

Dick gave another grunt; but this time it was more subdued. The idea of any one learning the Grampus as well as Bob knew her! In order to do that, a fellow would have to be born with a working knowledge of explosive engines in his head—just as Bob had been.

“Thank you for that, Glennie!” said Bob. “You can get busy right now, if you want to.”

“Just tell me what I’m to do,” Glennie answered.

“Go up on deck and keep a sharp lookout while we’re passing through the channel. We must be vigilant, even when we can see no reason for it. Wily enemies are after us, and eternal watchfulness is the price of success, fully as much as it is of liberty.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” said Glennie, and started forthwith up the ladder.

“He’s too top-heavy, Bob,” growled Dick, pulling his head away from the periscope.

“He’s a good fellow at heart, Dick,” averred Bob. “We’re all going to like him a whole lot when we know him better.”

Dick sniffed and jerked his chin over his left shoulder.

“If he takes hold on this boat he’ll make a mess of everything. I don’t like the cut of his jib, nor the way he talks, now that he sees his first bluff didn’t go. If——”

There was a muffled shout and a bounding of feet on the deck. A wide grin parted Dick’s face.

“There he goes—in hot water already.”

Dick ducked back into the periscope hood. But the periscope did not show the deck of the Grampus, nor the waters immediately adjacent, being constructed for reflecting objects at longer range.

Bob hurried up into the tower. The moment he was able to look over the hatch he was thrilled by what he saw.

A dugout canoe was alongside the steel hull—and it had evidently brought three natives from the neighboring shore. They were exactly the same kind of savages Bob had encountered on the island—perhaps, even, they had formed part of the same crowd.

One of the savages had gained the deck forward. Glennie had caught his spear, and the two were struggling for possession of the weapon. A second native was climbing up the rounded deck with the apparent intention of attacking Glennie in the rear. The third of the trio kept to the canoe, paddling, and keeping it alongside.

So intent were all three of the Indians on the struggle which Glennie was carrying on that they did not notice Bob. Swiftly the young motorist got out of the conning tower.

“Look out behind you, Glennie!” shouted Bob Steele as he hurried forward.

CHAPTER XLV.
A PRISONER—AND A SURPRISE.

Bob’s shout acquainted the savages with the fact that there were two whites to be dealt with instead of one. The scoundrel in the canoe dropped his paddle and picked up a spear. The dugout dropped a little behind, but the savage brought the ungainly craft nearly to the conning tower with two sweeps of the paddle. The next moment he let his spear fly, and there came a bloodcurdling whoop from the tower hatch.

Carl, as usual, happened to be in the way of trouble. He had flung through the periscope room and chased after Bob up the ladder. Bob avoided the spear by dropping to his knees. It passed over his head, snapped Carl’s cap off his shock of tow-colored hair, and carried it on for a dozen feet, dropping out of sight with it beneath the water.

“Vat a vay iss dot!” bellowed Carl. “Tick, handt me oop a gun, or a gannon, or somet’ing. Bob, look oudt a leedle!”

Carl forgot the loss of his cap, forgot even that he had asked Dick for a weapon, and scrambled to get out of the tower and go to his chum’s aid.

The savage who had been climbing up the rounded deck had made a spring for Glennie’s back. Bob Steele leaped about the same time, grabbing the native before he could do the ensign any harm.

Bob, and the man he was holding, fell to the deck, rolled over the rounded plates, and splashed into the water.

“A rope!” howled Carl, jumping up and down on the deck to attract Dick’s attention; “a rope! Bob is in der vater mit a Inchun, und he vill be trowned!”

Dick came hurrying up the ladder with a coil of line.

“Here!” he cried, tossing the coil to Carl. “Get busy, mate. I’ll lay the Grampus closer, and mind Bob gets hold of the rope.”

Bob and the native were still struggling. The fact that they were in fifteen or twenty fathoms of water did not seem to impress either of them with the necessity of swimming to keep afloat.

When they first tumbled into the water, there was a great splash, and they disappeared; when they came up, they were puffing like porpoises, but Bob had his hands around his antagonist’s throat, and the savage was hanging to Bob’s hair.

“Help Glennie!” sputtered Bob, who, by then, was some distance astern. “Capture that man!”

“Glennie be hanged!” growled Dick. “We’ll save our chum, no matter what happens to the ensign.”

Carl, standing ready to heave the rope, was mixed up in the ensign’s battle by an unexpected trend of it which nearly knocked him overboard. The two, still twisting and striving for possession of the spear, struggled toward the conning tower and collided with the Dutch boy. The matter of self-defense suddenly presented itself to Carl, and he dropped the rope and went for the savage like a tiger.

It was not the spear Carl wanted, but the savage himself. The ensign was eliminated, and Carl and the native went down on the deck, rolling and pummeling.

“Jujutsu!” exclaimed the ensign, astounded at the science the untutored savage was showing. “Look! He’s using jujutsu and trying to break Pretzel’s arm!”

“Save the arm, then!” snorted Dick. “Run that spear through the swab.”

Glennie did not impale the savage on the point of the spear, but he used the handle, and gave the arm that was bending Carl’s a stout thump. A gasp escaped the savage’s lips, and his arm dropped away as though paralyzed. Carl rolled over on top and got his fingers about his antagonist’s throat.

“Gif me der rope!” he cried. “Misder Glennie, schust put a leedle piece oof der rope aboudt der feller’s handts!”

Dick Ferral was not paying much attention to the fight Carl and Glennie were having. They were two to one, and there could not be much doubt as to the result of the contest. Dick’s worry was reserved for Bob, for it seemed as though the savage in the water was bending every effort to drag Bob under and drown both of them.

The other savage in the dugout was paddling like mad in an effort to get alongside the combatants. It had taken some time and space for the submarine to turn about on her course, and Dick was now driving her straight for the two in the water.

So far as Dick could see, both Bob and the savage were almost at the last gasp. How they ever kept afloat at all was a mystery.

As the boat shot in between the dugout and the pair in the water, the third savage could have thrown his spear to good effect—if he had had it. But he did not have it, and all he could do was to paddle off and furtively await the issue.

The submarine glided alongside Bob and the Indian, and Dick immediately made a discovery that took his breath.

The savage was yellow in spots—half yellow and half mahogany color.

“Here, Bob!” cried the voice of Glennie as he knelt on the deck while the submarine slowed in answer to Dick’s signal. “Drop that fellow and catch this rope!”

“I can’t drop him!” gurgled Bob.

Glennie reached over with the spear and tapped the savage on the head. Instantly the fellow, with a fierce snarl, let go of Bob and vanished under the hull of the Grampus.

Bob, thus left with his hands free, caught the rope and was dragged aboard. Glennie snaked him to the top of the deck, and, for a space, the young motorist lay there.

“Did you capture the other fellow?” asked Bob, as soon as he had rested a minute.

“He’s tied to the other end of the rope that I used for pulling you in,” replied Glennie.

“Good enough! Did you notice how that rascal I was fighting with changed color in the water?”

“You bet!” cried Dick. “I saw that! Was it war paint he had on?”

“No war paint about it, Dick,” declared Bob. “There was a yellow skin under that brown paint.”

“And dis feller is der same vay!” called Carl. “Look ad here, vonce!”

All eyes turned in the direction of the Dutch boy. He was sitting on his enemy’s chest, holding him down, and there were dabs of brown pigment all over Carl’s face. His hands were fairly coated with it.

“These savages have a yellow skin, Bob,” said Glennie, “and it must be that they paint themselves a brown color when they go on the warpath.”

“If what I have read is true,” returned Bob, “there are no savage tribes at the mouth of the Amazon. All the Indians in these parts are at least half civilized.”

“Then where did these rascals come from, and why have they attacked us in this venomous manner?”

“They came from that island where we cleared the propeller,” said Bob.

“These are members of that gang?”

“Don’t you recognize them, Glennie?”

“They all look alike to me. Of course, I suspected they were from the same tribe, but I didn’t know they were the same men. There were five of them on the island.”

“You wounded one of the others. Probably one of the fellows stayed behind to look after the wounded man’s injury.”

“But how could they get here in that dugout, and lay us aboard, as they did? We’re a good way from that island.”

“No doubt, Dick,” said Bob, “they surmized that we would take the South Channel on our way to Para. While we were meandering around in that blind passage they were paddling for this place, and getting ready to attack us.”

“I like their nerve!” muttered Dick; “three of ’em tryin’ to capture the Grampus!”

“You don’t think they live on that island, do you?” asked Glennie.

“They live on an island, all right,” returned Bob, “but it’s a good many thousand miles from here.”

Carl took a furtive look at Bob Steele. “You vas joshing!” he exclaimed.

“If you fellows had your eyes,” replied Bob, “there wouldn’t be any joshing.”

“Some of that dope is still fogging your brain, I guess,” observed Dick. “But what’s the use of talking? You’ve got your prisoner, Mr. Glennie. Better bring him downstairs. First thing you know he’ll be in the water, and take Carl along with him.”

“Nod me!” piped Carl. “Dere is a rope aroundt his handts, und I’m holting him on der top of der deck. But I guess ve might schust as vell dake him by der periscope room.”

“Look at him first,” suggested Bob. “Glennie, you give him a close observation. I’m surprised at you fellows.”

Glennie, Dick, and Carl were at a loss to know what Bob was driving at. Walking over to the prisoner, the ensign bent down and stared at him.

“What!” he gasped, straightening up and peering excitedly at Bob. “Tolo!”

“Now you’ve struck it,” laughed Bob. “Those supposed savages were merely a detachment of our old friends, the Japs. I discovered that as I dropped into the water. That’s why I called out as I did. Here’s our resourceful acquaintance, Tolo. First he’s a Jap, next he’s a Chinaman, and now he’s a native of the Amazon. There’s no telling what he’ll be next time if we allow him to get away from us. Take him below, and let’s have a talk with him.”

Glennie and Carl, between them, succeeded in getting Tolo down the tower hatch. Before Bob went below he took a look behind. The dugout was far in the distance, with two men at the paddles.

From this evidence it was plain that Bob’s antagonist had gained the canoe and was now, with his companion, paddling swiftly away to rejoin the rest of their friends.

CHAPTER XLVI.
THE OLD SLOUCH HAT.

“I’m a dunderhead, all right,” Glennie cheerfully admitted, when they were all in the periscope room with the prisoner, lashed hand and foot, lying before them. “I saw this rascal try a jujutsu trick on Carl, in an attempt to break his arm, and yet I never suspected that he was a Japanese, let alone Tolo!”

“It’s plain enough now, isn’t it, Glennie?” queried Bob. “These yellow men are always hard to identify, but this fellow is certainly Ah Sin, otherwise Tolo. Notice how closely his hair is clipped. He had to have a close haircut when he got into his Chinese disguise. All the rest of those make-believe savages had long hair.”

“I wonder where the rascals came from? Their steamer wasn’t anywhere in sight.”

“It’s tucked away among the islands. This, you know, is a peaceable country, and the Japs would have to be wary in carrying out their designs upon the Grampus. I’ll bet those fellows know all about our route, and what ports we expect to call at. It was easy for them to get into the mouth of the Amazon ahead of us, and then wait for us to come along.”

A sudden idea occurred to Glennie, and he went down on his knees and began searching the Jap. Inasmuch as the only garment the Jap wore was a short kirtle, the search did not consume much time. Glennie got up disappointedly.

“The packet isn’t there, eh?” asked Bob.

“No.”

“He was probably wise enough to leave it on the steamer.”

“Where it has already been opened, no doubt, by the leader of these Sons of the Rising Sun. I’m in as deep as ever, and the capture of Tolo hasn’t helped me.”

The dejection in Glennie’s voice was too pronounced to be passed over.

“Don’t take it so hard,” urged Bob. “Go to Mr. Brigham, in Para, and tell him the whole story. Perhaps a way can be found to make Tolo talk.”

“We’ll try him now,” said Glennie, a flash of forlorn hope crossing his face. “Why do you want to treat me like this, Tolo?” he queried, addressing the prisoner.

“What I do I do for Nippon,” was the slow answer.

“You stole my dispatches, there in La Guayra,” went on Glennie, still addressing himself to the prisoner. “What sort of way was that to treat me?”

“For Nippon,” muttered Tolo; “all is for Nippon, all is for my beloved country.”

“What did you do with those dispatches?” demanded Glennie.

“I will say nothing,” answered Tolo, with careful emphasis.

“Your country will be held to account for this,” proceeded Glennie severely.

“My country has nothing to do with it. I am a Son of the Rising Sun, and I should like to die for my country. If my hands were free, and I had a sword, then—hari-kiri! It is a glory to kill oneself for one’s country.”

“Guff!” growled Dick. “Hear him talk—and all for effect.”

“You’re wrong, Dick,” said Bob. “The poor fellow means every word he says.”

“And he say dot it vas good to die for vone’s country!” murmured Carl. “I don’d agree mit dot. I vould radder lif for my gountry. A deadt hero don’t amoundt to nodding, but a live feller is aple to do t’ings vat count. Yah, id is pedder to lif for vone’s gountry as to die for id.”

“There’s a whole lot of sense in that, Mr. Pretzel,” said Glennie.

“T’ank you!” returned Carl, with mock politeness. “I know dot before you shpeak id oudt, Misder Glennie.”

The ensign looked at Carl in a disappointed way, for it must have been plain to him that he was not breaking the ice any, so far as Carl and Dick were concerned.

“You pretended to be Ah Sin just so you could get aboard this boat, and destroy it, didn’t you?” Glennie pursued, again focusing his attention on the prisoner.

“I am saying nothing,” was the reply in calm, even tones.

“Why did you and your companions make an attack on this boat?” put in Bob curiously.

There was no response.

“You three didn’t think you could take her away from the lot of us, did you?”

Still no answer, merely a cool, passive glance.

“You can’t rattle him,” put in Dick, “nor get him to say anything that’s incriminating. He’s Tolo, hard and fast, and it’s not so queer why he and his two comrades hove alongside of us. They were engaged in some quiet work, and when Mr. Glennie went on deck, according to your orders, he interrupted them and sprung a fight where no fight was intended.”

“Now, Dick,” said Bob whimsically, “you’re the deep one. Just what do you mean by that?”

“Suppose there was a bomb in that dugout,” continued Dick; “and suppose those fellows fastened it to the side of the Grampus, fired the fuse, and then paddled silently away. What would have happened? Will dynamite cause damage sideways as well as up and down?”

Bob gave a startled jump—a jump that caused his wet clothes to rustle, and the water to slosh around in his shoes.

“Great guns!” he exclaimed. “You’ve got your finger on the right button, Dick! That was a point that bothered me tremendously—why three men should try such a foolhardy thing as making an attack on a submarine with a full complement below decks. Now I understand, and the whole situation clears. Tolo and his companions stole up alongside of us to put a bomb somewhere about the hull of the Grampus. By luck, Glennie went on deck in time to frustrate the design. By Jove, but it was another narrow escape!”

“Once in a while,” Dick replied, with a grin, “I blunder on something that’s worth telling.”

“I should say so!”

“Excellent reasoning, Mr. Ferral!” approved Glennie.

The grin left Dick’s face on the instant, and a frown took its place. He turned to the periscope abruptly.

Bob was surprised at the depth of feeling which this action on the part of his chum made manifest. Glennie settled back grimly on the locker. Carl began to hum a Dutch song under his breath—and for that Dick and Bob were thankful. If he had sung the song aloud they would have had to throw something at him. A certain Captain Pierce, in Belize, had set the fashion, and now whenever Carl burst into song he had to dodge everything that was handy.

In the embarrassing silence that followed Dick’s action, Bob began to take off his shoes and socks.

“I’ve got to get into something dry,” he remarked. “You fellows better make sure Tolo is well lashed, and then take him into Mr. Glennie’s room. That, Glennie,” he added, removing his water-logged coat, “used to be our prison chamber.”

“A good place for me, then,” observed Glennie, with a side glance at Dick and Carl.

“You might get off the locker a minute,” went on Bob. “I’ve an outfit of clothes somewhere in that long box you’re sitting on.”

“Pardon me!”

Glennie got up and helped Carl examine the prisoner’s bonds. While they were busy with that, Bob began rummaging for his dry clothes. About the first thing he laid hands on was the old slouch hat with its attached queue.

“Wow!” cried Bob. “What did you put this in here for, Carl? It looked like a snake.”

With that Bob jerked the hat and queue out of the locker and hurled them across the room.

As he was about to return to the locker again and go on with his rummaging, Bob caught a gleam in the prisoner’s eyes that caused him to straighten up and watch Tolo more carefully.

Tolo’s gaze was on the hat. For once he was betrayed out of his grim passiveness, and there flamed in his eyes something unusual—and significant to Bob, who studied Tolo’s face keenly. The Jap’s eyes continued to rest on the hat until he saw that Bob was watching him; then the eyes turned away absently and lost their telltale gleam.

“Vat’s der madder mit der feller?” muttered Carl. “He seemed to vake oop, for a minid, und now he is like he alvays is. Vat ails him?”

“Queer he took on that sort of look, all of a sudden,” mused Glennie.

“Probably he t’ought of somet’ing mit a bomb in id,” suggested Carl. “I move ve tie somet’ing heafy aboudt his neck und make him shvim agross der Amazon. Hey?”

No one seconded Carl’s suggestion. Bob rose, walked over to the hat and queue, and picked them up. Tolo paid no attention, or did not seem to.

With the old slouch hat in his hand Bob sat down on a stool and began feeling of the crown with his fingers.

“Vat’s dot for?” chirped Carl.

“I tell you,” said Dick, “our chum has still got a twisted brain. Tolo’s coffee is continuing to have its effect.”

Bob laughed, suddenly turned the old hat over, tore out the lining, and pulled forth a crumpled envelope, closed with a red seal.

Glennie gave a yell. “My dispatches!” And, with that, he staggered across the small room, grabbed the envelope, and waved it above his head. “My dispatches!” he repeated, his voice husky.

“I thought so,” said Bob. “They have been in that old slouch hat, in the locker, ever since we made that dive to get away from the Japs.”

“And I pud dem dere,” remarked Carl pompously. “How mooch is id vort’?”

CHAPTER XLVII.
AT PARA.

Ensign Glennie was a happy man. In that blissful moment, when he was hugging his dispatches, he wanted to be friends with everybody, and would have shaken hands as rapturously with Dick and Carl as he did with Bob.

“Before you do too much rejoicing, Glennie,” said Bob, “you’d better first examine the envelope, and see if it has been tampered with.”

An examination showed the seal to be intact.

“I don’t believe Tolo had any right to tamper with it,” said Glennie. “What I mean is, that those other Sons of the Rising Sun who are leading the expedition against the Grampus, would probably demand that they be allowed to open the dispatches with their own hands. Tolo didn’t have time to see the others of the Young Samurai between the time he left La Guayra and the time he presented himself to me, in the rôle of Ah Sin, on board the Grampus.”

“Ah Sin!” commented Carl. “I nefer t’ought vat a goot name dot vas for der feller. Ven he dook dot name he dook der vone vat fitted.”

“We can begin to understand, too,” Dick observed, “why he never took off that old hat. He kept it on so the letter wouldn’t get away from him.”

“And so that we wouldn’t see him without the queue,” added Bob. “If he had removed the hat, Dick, he would have been recognized.”

“By Jove, fellows!” said Glennie, “I’d like to do something to celebrate.”

“Ain’t you fellows getting hungry?” called Speake through the torpedo-room tube. “I’ll jump in and scrape together a meal, if you say so. I reckon we can all get a square feed in Para, in the mornin’.”

“Get us something, Speake,” answered Bob. “That’s the way we’ll celebrate, Glennie.”

“It’s the biggest streak of luck I ever had in my life!” declared Glennie. “And you brought it to me, Bob!”

“Dot’s vat I say,” cried Carl. “Anypody vat travels mit Bob Steele is bound to haf some of der luck vat comes py him. I know, because I have hat it meinseluf. Ain’d dot so, Dick?”

“Luck hands around her favors to everybody who ships with Bob,” agreed Dick. “It doesn’t make any difference whether they’re entitled to the favors or not, they get ’em.”

This last remark may have been a bit of a slap at Glennie, but the ensign was too happy to notice it.

“What gave you the notion of looking into that hat, Bob?” inquired Glennie. “I’d have thrown it overboard to get it out of the way.”

“Why, Glennie,” answered Bob, “you and Carl both saw what I did, and spoke about it.”

Carl and the ensign exchanged astonished glances.

“Didn’t the prisoner seem to make up and brighten perceptibly a little while ago?”

“Yah, I rememper dot.”

“So do I.”

“Well, he did it when I threw the hat out of the locker. His eyes followed it as it flew across the room, and they rested on it as it lay on the floor. I read a good deal of concern in that glance—more concern, in fact, than the old headgear and the attached queue called for. There could be but one thing to make Tolo act like that, and I figured that he had put the envelope in there. It’s not a new place for hiding things, boys. Lots of people, out in the Western part of the United States, stow valuable things away in their sombreros.”

“Nod me any more,” wailed Carl. “Subbose I hat peen foolish enough to pud my money in dot cap of mine? Den vat? Id vould now be in der bottom of der ocean. Talk aboudt your glose shafes! Vy, dot Chap feller vat looked like a safage, sent dot shpear so near my headt dot he took a lock of hair along mit der cap. I don’d like dot! Shpears is pad bizness. Vy did der Chaps use shpears, ven refolfers is handtier?”

“They were playing a part, Carl,” said Bob, “and whenever a Jap plays a part he does it well. If Tolo and those with him had had firearms, they would have been playing out of their character.”

“Dey don’d got mooch character to be oudt of, anyvay. Dey had bombs, und safages don’t haf dose.”

“The bombs weren’t in sight.”

A few minutes later Speake came up with the supper. After the meal was out of the way, Speake took Dick’s place at the wheel in order to give him a chance to rest, and later assume Gaines’ place at the motor. Carl went down to give Clackett a rest, and Bob stretched out on the locker.

It was midnight when the Grampus rounded Cape Magoari and turned into the Para arm of the Amazon. The port of Para was seventy-five miles up the river, and Bob decided to submerge the Grampus, pass the rest of the night on the river bottom, and then ascend to the town with daylight to help.

This arrangement enabled all hands to sleep, and morning found the submarine’s complement fresh and ready for whatever fate held in store.

The ascent of the river was made on the surface of the stream, with all who could be spared on deck, searching the shipping with careful eyes. Bob and his friends were looking for the mysterious steamer that carried the fighting contingent of the Sons of the Rising Sun, and were vastly relieved when they failed to sight the vessel.

It was nearly noon when the red roofs of Para came into view. The river, opposite the town, was about twenty miles wide, but so cut up with islands that the steamer with the black funnel and the red band might have lain among them and so escaped observation. However, Bob and his companions chose to think that the Young Samurai were too discreet to make them any trouble in a peaceable port.

The Grampus was moored alongside a wharf, and a gayly uniformed harbor official came aboard to learn the submarine’s business, and to find whether there was any need of a customs inspector. The sight of Glennie, and his declaration that the boat had merely put in at the port to give some of her crew a chance to pay their respects to Mr. Brigham, the United States consul, was enough.

Bob, although he fancied the boat secure, did not intend taking any chances. Dick, Carl, and Speake were to be left aboard as an anchor watch, while Bob and Glennie called on the consul, and Gaines and Clackett whiled away a few hours in the river metropolis. The prisoner was to be left in the steel room until the consul should advise what had better be done with him.

Consul Brigham, Bob and Glennie quickly learned, lived on the finest avenue in Para—the Estrada de Sao José. Through this thoroughfare, bordered with a colonnade of royal palms, Bob and Glennie were driven on their way to the consulate.

In the office of the consulate was a gentleman in shirt sleeves and white duck trousers. His feet were elevated on the top of a table, and he was trying to keep himself cool with an immense palm-leaf fan.

The sight of a United States naval uniform brought the consul to his feet immediately.

“Mr. Brigham?” asked Glennie.

“What’s left of him, my dear sir,” was the answer. “I’ve melted considerably during this spell of hot weather. You’d naturally think the trade winds, which blow continually in this section, would temper the air. But trade winds, my dear sir, are not what they’re cracked up to be.”

Glennie introduced himself, and then presented Bob. Mr. Brigham smiled expansively, and drew a bandanna handkerchief over his perspiring brow.

“I’ve been expecting the pair of you,” he announced, shaking each by the hand.

“Expecting us?” queried Glennie, astonished.

“Sure. Read that.”

The consul tucked a cablegram into Glennie’s fingers. It had come from Belize, and was signed by the captain of the Seminole. Glennie read it aloud:

“Bob Steele and Ensign John Henry Glennie, U. S. N., will reach Para in submarine Grampus. Glennie carries dispatches for you. Read them, and see that both Steele and Glennie understand them thoroughly.”

“Nice, long message, eh?” queried Brigham, slapping Glennie on the back. “Plenty of useless words, but what does the captain of the Seminole care? Uncle Sam stands the cable toll, and, besides, on grave matters it is well to be explicit. Hang a few extra dollars, anyway. Where’s the dispatches?”

Glennie imagined how he would have felt if he had been obliged to report, in view of that cablegram, that his dispatches had been lost and not recovered.

“I want to tell you something about those dispatches before you read them, Mr. Brigham,” said the ensign.

“Well, sit down, my lads. What’s the good word, ensign?”

Thereupon Glennie told the whole story connected with the loss of the dispatches and their final recovery. Everything went in, and a half hour was consumed in the telling. More than once Brigham whistled and puckered his brows ominously. But he was absorbed in the narrative. When it was done, he reached his hand toward Bob.

“Pardon me, youngster,” said he, “but I never miss a chance to shake hands with a live one. Possibly it’s because I’ve lived so long in this dead place, where you can’t turn around without having some sluggard tell you ‘mañana.’ You’re the clear quill, and I’ll gamble you’ll get along. If I was younger, blamed if I wouldn’t like to trot a heat with you myself.”

Bob, flushing under the compliment given him by the consul, allowed his hand to be wrung cordially.

“Now,” said Brigham, “look out of the windows at the beautiful palms while I go through these papers.”

The consul was all of half an hour getting the gist of his dispatches.

“I’m ready for you two lads,” he presently called.

Bob and Glennie returned to the chairs they had previously occupied. They were surprised at the change that had come over Mr. Brigham’s face. On their arrival, it had been bright and smiling, while now it was dark and foreboding.

“I guess you lads know how it feels to be in the jaws of death, and just slip out before they close,” said he, “but you don’t know the whole of it, not by a jugful. Of all the high-handed proceedings I ever heard of, this certainly grabs the banner. Now, listen.”

CHAPTER XLVIII.
A DESPERATE RISK.

“Did you know, Bob Steele,” asked the consul, by way of preface, “that Captain Nemo, junior, right there in Belize, had been approached by an agent of the Japanese government and offered two hundred thousand for something he’s selling to our government for just half that?”

“No, sir,” answered Bob. “But I know the captain well enough to feel sure that he wouldn’t sell the Grampus to any other country but the United States, not if he was offered a million. He has invented a submarine that is better than any other craft of its kind that was ever launched, and the captain is patriotic enough to want his own country to reap the benefit.”

“Exactly. Captain Nemo, junior, is a man after my own heart, by gad! Well, he refused the offer, and two days later he received a warning signed simply, ‘The Sons of the Rising Sun,’ saying that if he did not reconsider the Grampus would be sunk in the bottom of the ocean. How was that for audacity? But the captain thought it was all bluff—the Japs have learned a lot from us, my lads, and bluff is not the least of their acquirements.

“The captain said nothing to you, Bob Steele, about this warning from the Sons of the Rising Sun. He treated it with silent contempt, well knowing that you would do everything possible to safeguard the submarine without any unnecessary talk from him.

“Now, from what you lads have told me, we must change our minds about that warning being a bluff. If it was a bluff, then the Japs are trying to make good. But the Japanese government knows nothing about this. If the high boys among the Japs in Tokio knew, they would be the first ones to send a warship after these precious Sons of the Rising Sun. The Young Samurai are going it on their own hook; they’re going to help their beloved country whether the country wants them to or not.

“The Grampus is a good thing. The Japs are able to tell a good thing when they see it, and that’s what makes the Sons of the Rising Sun so hungry either to buy the submarine or send her to the bottom in such a way that she can’t come up. They’re a lot of hotheads, that’s what they are, and they don’t care a picayune what happens to them just so they can get in some wild stroke that, in their overheated estimation, may benefit Nippon.

“I don’t know as we can blame them. It hasn’t been so mighty long since they broke through their chrysalis of heathendom, and they are drunk with their success in their late unpleasantness with Russia—Russia, a country that has been our firm friend ever since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock.

“Well, you have faced desperate risks, and you may be compelled to face more. I wish I could assure you that there were no more troubles in sight, but the Japs are a persistent race, and whenever young firebrands like these Sons of the Rising Sun get started at anything they never know when to let go. But,” and here the consul brought his fist emphatically down on the table, “I don’t think you can possibly meet any greater dangers than you have already met and successfully passed through. Bearing that in mind, I’d be willing to bet every dollar I’ve got that Bob Steele will make good, and deliver this old catamaran at Mare Island, right side up with care, and everybody smiling—except, of course, the Sons of the Rising Sun. I’ll back Young America against Young Japan any day. Catch my drift? That’s about all. Come in and eat with me—we have to eat, you know, no matter how hot it is. After dinner we’ll look after Mr. Tolo, and I’ll give Bob a letter to an agent who will supply him with gasoline, or any other old thing that happens to be necessary in order to make a submarine go. There won’t be any water in the gasoline, either. Come on, now, and let’s try and be cheerful. Heaven knows you boys have got enough ahead of you to make your hair stand on end like quills on the fretful porcupine, but what we’re not sure of hadn’t ought to trouble us.”

Bob and Glennie had a good dinner, and after it was over the consul went with them to the Grampus and gave the craft a sizing. He was charmed with the boat, and all the useful odds and ends of machinery with which she was packed.

Following that, he went to the prison chamber and surveyed Tolo as he lay bound and helpless on the floor.

“You’re a nice young patriot, I must say!” exclaimed the consul, as he looked down on the quiet, uncomplaining Japanese, “but you met more than your match when you went up against Bob Steele. Where are the rest of your rascally outfit?”

“I speak nothing, honorable sir,” replied Tolo, “not because of any disrespect for you, but out of regard for my dear Nippon.”

The consul stared, and then he groaned.

“High-handed outrage stalks the seas,” he muttered, “and this poor fool calls it love of country! Well, well! I wonder what Commodore Perry would say if he could hear that? The Japs are our great and good friends, all right, but we don’t count for much when there’s a little thing like a patent boat on the program. I’ll take care of you, my lad,” he added to Tolo. “You’ll stay in Para until the first United States warship comes along, and then you’ll travel to the States and give an account of yourself.”

A few minutes later the consul left the boat, and, an hour after he was gone, police officers arrived and carried the misguided Tolo to the municipal bastile.

That was the last Bob and his friends ever saw of him.

Bob and Glennie refused a pressing invitation to stay all night at the consul’s palatial home. They explained to him that, in view of the vague dangers threatening them and the Grampus, they felt as though they ought to stay with the boat.

Mr. Brigham commended their zeal, repeated his encouraging auguries for their ultimate success, and warned them again of dangers ahead.

“Desperate risks are what you’re to take,” said he. “It may be that you have clipped the claws of the dragon, and that nothing more will be heard of the Sons of the Rising Sun. That’s the bright side of the picture, but please don’t look at it. In a case of this kind it is better to expect the worst; then, if better things come to you, they will be in the nature of a happy surprise.”

On the second day of their stay in Para, Dick went ashore and got their supplies. It had been on the schedule that the Grampus was to put in at Rio, but Mr. Brigham advised the boys to give that port a wide berth.

“Your itinerary,” he explained, “is probably known to these hotheaded Japs. The way to fool them is by dodging the itinerary and putting in at the places where you are not expected.”

“We’ll have to stop somewhere before we round the Horn,” said Bob; “and I believe we’ll call at——”

“Don’t tell me!” protested the consul. “Don’t tell any one in Para, or even talk it over among yourselves until you are well away at sea. Then, when you speak the name of your next port of call, go down to the ocean bed and whisper it. Do you think I’m piling it on? Well, perhaps so, but I am only trying to let you understand how necessary it is to keep your own counsel. I’m mightily interested in you, and in your ultimate success, and what advice I give I give earnestly, and trust you will take it so. You’ll get around the Horn, all right, and you’ll get to Mare Island, and the Grampus will become part and parcel of our country’s navy, perhaps with Ensign Glennie in command. That’s a cinch, my lads; but what you’re to go through before you reach Frisco is a horse of another color. Don’t be overconfident. Remember what I say, and keep your eyes on the dark side of the picture. Good-by, and luck go with you.”

On the morning of the third day after their arrival at Para the Grampus slipped down the river toward the open sea. She carried confident hearts and determined wills—and, in spite of the fact that all had their eyes on the “dark side of the picture,” there was plenty of hope and also of good cheer in the stout steel hull of the submarine. For Bob Steele was in command. He had brought the Grampus through many perils, and all had faith to believe that he could bring her through many more.

THE END.

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Transcriber’s Note:

The Contents at the beginning of this ebook has been added by the transcriber. Punctuation has been standardised; hyphenation retained as in the original publication. Changes have been made as follows:

Page 137
the noise reached Bob ears changed to
the noise reached Bob’s ears

Page 154
and render gallant sevice for changed to
and render gallant service for

Page 208
number of almiralty charts changed to
number of admiralty charts

Page 258
darted up the coning-tower ladder changed to
darted up the conning-tower ladder

Page 261
narrowly escaped runing the changed to
narrowly escaped running the

Page 287
they surmized that we would take changed to
they surmized that we would take

Page 300
before you read them, Mr. Bingham changed to
before you read them, Mr. Brigham